My Burton Coffee Stand and morning walking companion, Bad Michael (to distinguish him from another coffee stand regular, Good Michael), understands that I am not, deep down, a nice person.

He understands this because he’s not one either. And we understand that the reason for this is that we’re both from New York City. Actually, that’s not entirely accurate: I grew up just over the Bronx border in Yonkers, a city long run by the Mafia; he is from Long Island City, a section of the borough of Queens composed largely of massive windowless warehouses run, I think, by Macy’s.

Anyway, the thing is, being a wise guy is a birthright in New York. In fact, “wise guy” comes in the water in New York, with the fluoride. And the highest form of admiration and affection you can get from a New Yorker is a nearly continuous stream of insults, often mentioning members of your family in less than flattering ways.

A true New Yorker, you see, has only one ambition in life: being “one up” on the next guy by means of witty remarks. It is, for us, like breathing. It is the principal reason for being alive.

The other regulars at the coffee stand understand this. In fact, they pay extra for the entertainment. As well they should: They’re gaining valuable new verbal skills; it’s like in-service training on the Borscht Belt comedy circuit just standing there. It’s a privilege.

Not surprisingly, the period just after 8 a.m. has come to be called “Insult Hour.” All are welcome. On occasion, however, in the midst of a perfectly normal exchange of vicious hilarity, one that has left one of us lacerated and the other in a state of helpless delight, we will notice a look of shock on the face of some new patron and have to stop right there and explain that we are simply New Yorkers holding a friendly conversation.

Invariably, the shocked patron will be a member of the majority demographic group in this region, disproportionately represented on Vashon, to wit: “the Northwest Nice.” Bad Michael and I, of course, know this already; had the stranger been a New Yorker, he or she would have slung a cleverly cutting insult into the conversation before even introducing themselves. That’s how we say, “Hi” in New York.

To Bad Michael and me, the Northwest Nice are like aliens from a planet not even a part of our universe. We don’t understand them. And we don’t trust them. They’re too nice. They smile out of context and say nice things. And they never, ever, honk their horns.

This is deeply puzzling to us. Cars are made with horns. You may have noticed they’re not options like, say, an eight-speaker stereo or Corinthian leather. They are standard equipment and their purpose is to protect you, just like air bags. The difference is that they’re there not to protect you from someone else. They’re there to protect you from having an apoplectic fit yourself while waiting for the Northwest Nice driver in front of you to let pedestrians, other cars and entire seasons pass before proceeding through the intersection.

Here’s something else that makes no sense: People here only cross the street at the corner. Anyone with half a brain (and this, naturally, would rule out Bad Michael) knows that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Euclid, another New Yorker as I recall, proved this — what? — at least a century ago.

You wanna cross the street, whaddaya do? You step off the curb and stride directly and purposefully across the pavement to wherever you’re going. That’s why they have curbs the whole length of the block: to step off of!

But here’s what’s really bizarre. If you cross like a New Yorker — which is to say, anywhere you like — here on Vashon, oncoming cars stop. Right there in the middle of the block! What’s that about? This is a real hazard.

In New York, it is understood that cars and street-crossers weave through and around each other with almost balletic grace, just the way pedestrians do on the sidewalk. If they didn’t, if cars just stopped to let street-crossers cross, the entire city would lock up in a knot. Chaos. Pandemonium. Not to mention lots of rear-endings. Besides, it’s ecologically wrong to cross only at the corner; a terrific waste of precious energy (especially for old guys like Bad Michael).

So enough, already, with the Northwest Nice. All this sweetness is killin’ me; I gotta go take a shot of insulin. See you at the coffee stand.

Come armed.

— Will North is the author of “The Long Walk Home.” His latest novel, “Water, Stone, Heart,” will be in bookstores April 28.