Insomniac City: New York, Oliver, and Me(28)

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1-23-13: 9:40 P.M., 17 degrees;

Such a clear night, you can see stars in Manhattan.

The gurgling sound of my heater.

The comical kerplunk over and over of cabs on Eighth hitting a metal plate on the avenue. I imagine the plate itself: feeling every single hit, bemoaning its fate, putting up with it…

I go to my window, watch the dance down below:

How every step taken by every person seems to have a purpose, to be part of a larger purpose, a rhythm moving us forward, life forward; what appears random isn’t—the choreography of pedestrians: An old man’s gait changes; suddenly he’s scampering across the street.

A girl dashes, frantic.

A woman in a wheelchair smoothly rolls.

And all the while: Kerplunk. Kerplunk. Kerplunk.





A WOMAN WHO KNEW HER WAY


I once met a young woman at a party who almost got into a fight over directions.

That’s pretty much exactly what she said when she came up to me: “I almost just got into a fight with a guy out there over directions.” She glanced at the sidewalk. She was still incensed. She had long blonde hair and wore a newsboy cap. I didn’t know her name. We hadn’t met yet. She wasn’t really even talking to me. She said what she’d said to the young woman to whom I had been talking. We hadn’t met yet, either. I had been standing in a corner by the window; it was a very crowded room; the first woman asked me how I knew the guys who were hosting this party.

“I don’t really know them,” I admitted. I told her I liked the shop, I liked the clothes here, I lived in the neighborhood.

Only the last part was true. I had actually just been out taking a walk, looking at the Christmas lights on people’s houses and fire escapes—it was a clear, cold night, about ten o’clock—when I came upon this shop at the corner of Perry and West Eleventh. It was a surf shop—surfboards visible through the large plate-glass windows—that much I knew. The little shop was filled with people, a holiday party clearly, and the party had spilled out onto the sidewalk; it looked warm and inviting. Why not? I thought. I opened the door and slipped in.

I headed right to the bar like I knew exactly where I was going. I was handed a drink, a sweet and very strong holiday punch. Five parts rum or something: perfect. Everyone at the party seemed to be outstandingly good-looking, women and men alike, so much so one might wonder if this was a criterion for getting invited. I pushed my way through the crowd, around the circuit once, then retreated to a corner to take it all in. That’s how the first woman and I started talking. But my claim that I liked the shop, liked the clothes, hadn’t satisfied her. “You don’t surf?” she said.

I considered lying, saying, “Yeah, sometimes I surf,” or, “I used to surf, but not anymore.” She might have believed that. I could’ve told her about California, where I used to live. But in the instant I knew my lie would somehow be found out. So I said I liked the clothes—they also sold T-shirts and sweaters and stuff. She took a sip of her drink then said, “You really don’t surf?”

That’s when the blonde in the newsboy cap walked up. The two said hi, like they knew each other, and then she said the thing about almost getting into a fight over directions.

It was very noisy so I wasn’t a hundred percent sure I’d heard right. I asked if that’s what she’d said.

She nodded, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “I was so pissed off. We’re talking and he nods in that direction”—she pointed toward the northeast—“and he says he’s going to a party in the East Village, just sort of nods his head. You know?”

I nodded.

“And so I say, ‘That’s not the East Village. If you go that way, you’ll run into, like, Sixth and Twelfth.’ Right?” She was talking to us now.

The other woman and I looked out the window toward where she’d pointed, and then we both said, “Yeah, right.”

“‘That is not the East Village.’ And he just looks at me and does this dismissive thing with his hand, as if saying I’m a girl and I don’t know what I’m talking about. He shows me his phone, his fucking phone, and says the phone says that’s the East Village. And it really pissed me off. I mean, I’ve lived here five years—”

“I know what you mean,” I interjected, “you have managed to live here for five years. You have earned the right to give good directions. You don’t need a phone telling you.”

“Exactly. I know how to get to the East Village, and that is not how. I don’t care what your fucking phone says.” She sighed, took a long sip of the fruity drink. “I just had to walk away; I almost wanted to hit him.” Suddenly the taste of the rum punch hit her; I could see the recognition on her face. “Wow, this drink is really strong.”

The other woman and I agreed. We had figured this out a couple sips ago: we were all very quickly getting very buzzed. Then the blonde in the newsboy cap looked at me with a puzzled expression as if it suddenly struck her that she had been talking to me all this time but didn’t know me. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Billy.”

“I’m Liz.”

“I’m a fan of anyone who gives directions,” I added.

She nodded, and smiled mildly. We stood there for a minute not talking. It was really loud. The other woman looked out at the crowd, scoping where to go next; she clearly didn’t want to be standing there talking to two people about the value of good directions, especially since one of them was old enough to be her dad. I couldn’t blame her.