I was walking down 7th Avenue in New York; it was 6:30 on Saturday morning and I had to catch the first train to Boston if I wanted to make it to work on time. I hadn't been to New York in a long time and I was shocked by how many people made eye contact with me, said hello or good morning. I hadn't noticed it the night before when the streets were crowded with partiers and theatergoers and people waiting in line for the new Harry Potter book. At the time I was sure I had somehow committed the ultimate New York sin of Looking Like a Tourist, and I attributed the attention to my overly sensible sandals; or maybe they could tell I had a change of clothes in my messenger bag. But now I think I understand: it was Saturday morning, and I was on my way to work, just like everybody else.

I have been working Saturdays for two years now, mostly 9-to-5 but sometimes 11-to-7. When you're walking through the city to work before nine on a Saturday morning, most of the people you see are also walking to work, unless they're already at work and waiting to sell you coffee and donuts and cigarettes and breakfast sandwiches. We walk alone and we carry bags and briefcases and we are usually running late and we mean business. Sure, you might see the occasional jogger if the weather's all right, but most people don't go out any earlier on a Saturday than they have to, and so there's a fine sense of purpose about the people you see on a Saturday morning.

But it's not just that sense of shared purpose, or at least shared crappy work schedule, that causes us otherwise-ordinary citizens of prickly northeastern cities to smile at each other; to nod; to say hello or good morning. It's our shared sense of of superiority to the rest of you slugabed layabouts who are rearranging your covers or stumbling your way to the shower even as we punch our timecards and unlock our offices and put on our aprons and hairnets. It's our shared understanding that we are the ones out there getting the world ready for your weekend entertainment. What would you do all weekend without us to serve you brunch, sell you flowers, fill your buckets of golf balls and staff your museums and your movie theaters?

And so when I see a fellow Master of the Weekend Universe walking down the street, another person who holds the power of leisure ot the lack thereof in his or her hand, how can I help but make eye contact, smile, and say "Good morning?"