‘Tank you, boss.” The counterman at the pizza place takes my bills. The customers are a mix — changing with the time of day — of neighborhood oldsters like me, kids leaving school, and motorbike-riding deliverymen: squat Central Americans who wear coal scuttle helmets. They recall the time the algorithm, instructed not to create images with generic white people, represented German soldiers in World War II with units of Nazi Negroes. Besides pies and slices, the place sells bottled drinks and pastries, which is why I am a regular. I leave the tip. “Tank you, boss.”
I hear the word “boss” here and in other places in the city — stores, cabs — frequently these days. I do not recall hearing it in the past. It accompanies a transaction, and it always sounds odd. The customer is always right, etc., but I am a purchaser, not an employer — not anyone’s boss. What gives?
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