FRANK MULLIGAN: Not so mean streets

The once street-wise guy, the dude who had lived in big cities and traveled via subway to all corners at all hours without qualm, was exiting a suburban supermarket.

It was about 8 p.m.

And it was dark, though the parking lot was well lit, the product of precise zoning regulations to assure law, order and an absolute minimum of nighttime fender benders.

He carried a plastic bag with that night’s dinner — Stouffer’s Fettucini Alfredo and Gorton’s All Natural Garlic Butter Grilled Fillets. He also carried a gallon of orange juice.

There were maybe 20 or so cars sparsely populating the parking lot, mostly near the supermarket entrance.

The former city boy was parked on the outskirts of the lot, so he was still 20 yards away when he noticed a young man coming toward him.

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