Yes ladies and gentlemen, I am working the streets. Oh God, we always joked the only thing a theatre BA would qualify you to do was suck cock and that “Become a whore.” was a fun answer to “So what are you going to do after graduation?” but we never actually thought you’d do it! What has the Big Apple done to you!?Unbunch your panties. I have not plummeted from the Prudy Judy side of the spectrum to the lowest ring of the Slutty Butty side (although events from the previous weekend make for speculation ummm… that’s another story!) No, I am not a nooner hooker. No, I am not running around dressed up as Giselle posing for pictures with tourists. Although that is not a bad idea….I’d be awesome at pretending to be a princess and totally fulfill childhood fantasies to boot.
So what the hell am I doing? I am working for “the man” (and that’s the biggest hint I can give) of the theatre world. Doing publicity for Broadway shows. That’s what I tell people, especially if I’m trying to sound like I have a fancy grown up job. “Publicity for Broadway”- sounds like a career, right? Ha. This “publicity” = me standing on a street corner, wearing a blue visor and t-shirt, looking like a camp counselor (Just an observation: fewer people wear visors than ponchos these days, they aren’t even favored by tourists) passing out fans. The fan is the brilliant summer alternative to the pamphlet. It’s a piece of paper attached to a popsicle stick- that makes it a fan and thus a souvenir. A free souvenir. That makes people want them. And they don’t just get shoved in a pocket like a pamphlet. People wave them around, literally all over town. I’ve seen them up in Central Park, in Chinatown, it’s crazy. Crazy, brilliant advertising. So I stand there, hand these out to people “Is it free? Really?? AWESOME!”, answer stupid tourist questions, smile a lot, people watch like it’s my job, and get paid $18/hr. Compared to what I’d be making as a prostitute, that’s nothing. But it’s pretty sweet for the amount (really lack there of) of effort I put out.
My actually like my coworkers. I was a little apprehensive at first because they are very musical theater- jazz hands, fan kicks, and all. It was a bit much for me on first reaction. But now it’s simmered down. We all share a tiny room stuffed with boxes of fans- close as hell quarters- and I don’t as of yet have urges to kill any of them. I don’t even flinch when they call me sweetie/baby/darling 20 times a day. I somehow find it endearing. Though I’m not spouting pet names out to all my casual acquaintances, I can see it happening in the future and I have to ask myself- is that risk worth the $18/hr? Only cause we’re in a recession.My coworkers know more about the theatre world than I do, which is a cool and rather unusual experience for me. For the most part they’re older than me, too. Which I greatly prefer. I don’t feel like I’m wasting my life yet, it’s just not prime. It’s also awesome because most of them are working actors. One just finished filming a network-ABC-tv show. One just quit to go on tour with Cats. Several have been in Off Broadway shows. My supervisor was up for the part of Simba in The Lion King until he befell an awful throat disease (he’s bitter and amusing). It’s great to be around working actors. And here we all are working for the theatre man in menial labor tasks. I’ve got a bright future: I always wanted to see the lights of Broadway. Now that’s my job. Perhaps this gig is the closest I’ll get. Time’ll tell.
Gay Pride in New York. Which must qualify at the very least as somewhat-theatrical because hello (1) we’re in the musical theatre capital of the world (2) drag queens, floats, rainbows (3) elbow-elbow-wrist-wrist-wrist (that’s the equation for the royal wave, ya dirty mind), (4) have you ever talked to a gay man?
That being said I was surprised. I am from San Francisco. Yes. Notably shocking: I’ve written 6 posts with out any mention of my beloved hometown. So while NYC is the musical theatre capital of the world and the capital of countless other things, San Francisco stakes claim as the gay capital of the world and also the only place I have ever been to pride before. I found it odd- SFPride wins -hands down- as more theatrical, lively, spirited. New York has numbers and a nonchalant, I’m-fabulous-and-I-know-it-sure-I’ll-accessorize-my-ensemble-with-a-rainbow-something-for-the-day-but we’re-keeping-it-cool where are San Francisco is I-ran-away-from-my-homophobic-parents-in-South-Dakota-to-be-here-and-I’m-fucking-FA-BU-LOUS-and-I’m-going-to-display-all-my-wondrous-GLORY-in-leather/lace/feathers/RAINBOWS/inch thick makeup/pink cowboy regalia/a thong/pasties!! I’d say that’s about the difference. (Should you care for a bit of expose and a walk down memory lane, here’s my 17 year-old-self’s account of my first SFPride.) I really couldn’t help but compare the two. I tried not to. I really did try.
Mika came down for the weekend which was absolutely wonderful. My lovely date for Pride. My friend. I don’t have enough friends here yet. My loner tendencies generally keep me from loneliness, but it was really, really nice to have a buddy. As it was Pride, where hetero-normative becomeshetero-abnormative = you’re assumed to be gay rather than straight, Mika and I knew we’d be viewed as a couple. We were rather amused by this and you’d think would have limited come ons from either gender. You’d think. What you wouldn’t think is that we would be propositioned by a middle aged short kinda fat man. Not individually, oh no. The man wanted us as a unit. “You are beautiful. Both so beautiful. Would you come with me to hotel room?” EW. We fled. Okay, I grabbed Mika’s hand and fled, we both pushed our way away through the crowds of people feeling gross. Fuck you, short middle aged gross short fat man, for having the power to make us feel gross. Fuck you.
Fortunately this was the only real down of the day.
Our journey to the parade was all New York. We woke up in Mika’s brother’s apartment on the Lower West Side which has an awesome roof garden (where, surprise: tenants actually hang out. We were caught us off guard by a man having a morning smoke) and an awesome view of the Empire State Building. This was followed by the perfect Sunday brunch. Classic diner. Classic New York brunch. Well, Mika and I weren’t all that cliche, but the tables surrounding us were. Across from our table. group of about ten 20-something girls all regaling high-pitched stories of the night before, a compilation of “omg”s and “I can’t believe I drank that much!” and “I’m soo hung over” and “did that guy get your number” etc etc all on a soundstage of giggles and requests for more coffee. Mika was annoyed, I was amused. At the table next to us was the woman who takes 2 hours to order. Charlotte York, Sally (When Harry Met Sally, Sally). “Do you have Splenda? You do? Ok, can I get a large iced coffee, no cream and can you bring us some Splenda?… Do you have bran muffins? …Can you check? ….You have mini bran muffins? …ok…that’s fine. I’ll have the Belgium Waffle [I wasn’t expecting that] with no butter on it. Ok? Ok, that’s it.” Again, I was amused.
After breakfast, we make our way to the parade route. We’re also on a mission: rainbow paraphernalia and Arizona Iced Tea. This leads us to making many little stops on the way. All the while Mika keeps saying “I feel like I’ve been here before.” “This is really familiar.” Which I imagine is some vague memory from childhood- the 4 year old Mika in a stroller being pushed down streets of New York. Sure, I have memories like that too. Neighborhoods dig up memories. Well, turns out this memory is not that vague. “Holy shit, I think my friend Alex works at that store.” Alex is one of the 2 of Mika’s New York friends I’ve met so can appreciate this crazy coincidence. We walk in the store and ask the first employ we meet. Yep, Alex works here, he might even be on now. Crazy. Mika’s kinda freaking out as we approach the counter, she hasn’t seen the guy in a couple years. We approach the counter, as a customer is just finishing her purchase and BAM. We are face to face with Creepy Rachel. What are you doing in New York? So funny to run into you! We should hang out. Nice to see you BYE. Ah! Of all people to run into.
Creepy Rachel, as she is not so fondly referred to by most of my college theatre community, is pretty much just that. Creepy. Weird. For the longest time I thought she had a crush on me as I would always catch her staring at me and she occasionally would say “hi” after being caught. I had no idea who she was until during the tech week of some show I saw her in the theater and realized she was a techie. Ooh. Confession: I have a dark past of being the cliche actor who doesn’t know all the amazing people who keep her out of the dark on stage. I have since (done some tech work, which put me in my place and) reformed my snooty actress ways. Techies are generally cooler than actors. Sure, I admit it. Creepy Rachel- whose name derives from her stares, stories she’s told in the booth about her trysts with vampires, the fact that she’s always playing mindsweaper on the computers in the student lounge (especially when you desparately need to use them and all the others are occupied), and also her general aura- is a rare exception. Still, it’s fun running into people and even the creepies make me smile because It’s a Small Island (After All).
I have since learned that Creepy Rachel isn’t creepy enough to attemp to contact me. More smiles.
Being in the theatre world is such an advantage/disadvantage paradox. On the one hand I have automatic community, automatic camaraderie, automatic sympathy with a large group of New Yorkers when I admit “I’m an aspiring actor.” I’ve been lucky to land a job where this makes perfect sense to all my coworkers. When I’m in the city I almost interact with people to whom this makes sense. Where it makes sense I’ll work a shitty unfulfilled failing hundreds of times to land the job I really want. I’m a New York cliche and New Yorkers understand that. Outside the city, I’m a freak, a derelict, a slacker, a stupid, naive, damsel in distress. A “what if you could get a better job?”, a “don’t you realise the odds are mad/wicked/hella stacked against you?”- the perfect “don’t you realise you won’t be a movie star? let me save you from your silly delusion. And as that’s the case why the hell would anyone want to be an actor?”
Because I can’t not be. I can’t explain it better than that.
Thank god I can be in a bubble where that makes sense.
Of course this bubble is relatively small. They say the theatre world is a small one. And it is, as all accounts of my previous post attest.
And yet the island has proved surprisingly small even outside my bubble. Let’s journey from the semi-theatre related (because let’s face it, it’s hard for me to break away) to totally non-theatre related through this series of “It’s a Small Island” posts.
On the same rained out night where I was mistaken for Lauren Ambrose, I was making my way over to a house party in Brooklyn (and if I lived in the apartment where said party took place, my cliche-ness would be complete. The perfect cliche Brooklyn residence complete with view.) The premature ending of the show left me with a couple hours to kill, which was no problem- two hours after leaving the theater I’m down 70+ blocks trying to catch the L. And there standing next to me are two people who had tried to see the show that night. Who had stayed until the final announcement after one hours wait in the rain and one soaking to the skin. I had admired their perserverance and “eh, it’s ust water, I’m too cool for an umbrella anyway attitude.” And they were both around my age and kinda cute and ok, which didn’t hurt my remembering them 70+ blocks and 2 hours later.
So we’re standing on the platform and I do something very out of character. I approach them, I chat them up. It was a victory in my ongoing battle against my insufferable “I make people come to me” nature. They were from Canada. Now residing in Brooklyn. I learned the key differences in American and Canadian dialects (we say “roof” they say “ruff”) and that in Canada every Walmart has a McDonald’s in it (eeeeeew), and the most valuable lesson: if you want to go up and talk to someone, just fucking do it.
in the works: NYPride (Mika you should give me access to pictures so I can post them), I got a new (totally cliche) job, Scottish con men, Central Park Guy update, Bronxville and moving out of it
According to wikipedia there are 8,274,527 people who call New York City home. According to facebook I know 29 of them. Neither figure is from an exactly sitable source, but I more or less know 0.00003% of the city. Give or take. Math makes me feel like I am a tiny person in a gigantic world. And yet my month of living here has made me feel like the world is undeniably small. I keep running into people I know.
This started my very first day here, my very first day on the job, my very first viewing of the play when everything was new and fresh, before I could recite monologues or pet peeve about actors’ decisions that really don’t make any sense if you think about them. I’m sitting there watching and all I can think of is That guy looks so familiar. Who is he? I’m I just doing that thing like when you go to college for the first time and everyone reminds you of some one from home? Perusing the program after the show does not answer all my questions until BAM. He’s a guy from the theatre program I did last summer. We used to go running together every other day. He had to create a stage name for union reasons. Sure enough, I approach him the next day and it all comes out. I know someone in the show I’m working for? Crazy.
It gets better.
I go through the same thing about the guy who’s doing props for the show. He looks so familiar, I swear I know him from somewhere– holy shit. He’s been in my apartment. Yes he has. See, the lovely luxurious huge apartment that I lived in my senior year of college was pretty much perfect for throwing parties. Among the many fetes held over the course of the year was the cast party for the spring play The Good Woman of Setzuan. The debauchery that went down at that party is another story and a moot point because it all happened after our director and his friends who had come to see the show that night stopped by. In my tipsy-omg-this-may-be-my-last-show-in-college (fortunately it wasn’t) haze I remember talking with them about plans after graduation and how I was probably moving to NYC, and that one of the friends was moving too. Little did we know then we’d be working at the same theater.
It’s always a little risky with these people. You’re 95% sure they are the person you think they are, but the 5% of doubt makes it scary. I approach Props Guy thinking If he is not who I think he is, he will think I’m fucking crazy. Hi, are you Rich Vibrose’s (sudonym, but it captures the gist of the actual) friend? I love watching people’s faces change from Why the fuck are you talking to me to Oh hey! which was exactly the reaction this question received followed by the cast party story in conversation form.
I have yet to embarrass myself. I have successfully identified four people I went to high school with who I haven’t seen in 4+ years, several other people from the theatre summer program, as well as the golden couple of the theatre department my freshman year who are still together 3 years later. Other people have not been so lucky. I’ve been waved at by total strangers (he was clearly an international tourist and perhaps it was a come on, and no it was not to some person in back of me) and been questioned, Are you from Alabama? and been stared in these eyes and told I looked really familiar (and I’m 95% sure she wasn’t hitting on me). But my absolute favorite misidentification happened on a night the show got rained out.
When the show gets rained out that means we ushers get to stand in the rain for probably an hour-roughly the time it takes to decide the storm isn’t just going to blow over. We aren’t allowed umbrellas, only clear ponchos. Thus this is the only place in the city where plastic ponchos do not automatically mark you as TOURIST, MUG ME.I don’t have an umbrella with me, and it’s still storming as I leave the theater and after weighing the options (wear the poncho, don’t get wet, risk getting mugged vs. don’t wear the poncho, get soaked, get raped because I look like a wet t-shirt contestant) I decide to wear the poncho out. I am shrouded in clear plastic as I walk out of the park. There are two paths to exit the theater, and I see two of the actors from the play leaving the path which means I will pass in front of them and they’ll be right in back of me on the main path out of the park. Yay, I bet I’ll get to overhear some of their conversation!
Which was true, but not as exciting as I hoped until my absolute favorite actor in the play who has the best voice ever says to his companion Is that Lauren up there? That looks like Lauren! Hey, Lauren! he yells Lauren! I know there is no one in between me and them, and the only person infront of me is a fat lady HOLY SHIT, HE’S YELLING AT ME! THEY THINK I’M LAUREN AMBROSE! Eeee! What do I do?? Quick! I turn around No I’m not Lauren, but I’ll take the mistake as a complement, and can I pay you a complement? You have the best voice I’ve ever heard and I’m an usher so I loved watching your performance every night. Response? Oh you are so sweet. And just like that, I’m in. For the next 2 blocks I am in. Introductions and brought into the conversation and I even get called adorable. It was awesome. Icing on the cake of looking like Lauren Ambrose…at least from the back and shrouded in plastic!
As an usher at Shakespeare in the Park, I have the privilege of watching the show every single night. This activity is actually the majority of my job. I’m paid to tell a couple people where the bathroom is and watch a show. To date, I have seen this Shakespearean tragedy 18 times. These have all been “previews” which is very specifically theater lingo that pretty much means the play hasn’t been reviewed yet and the company wants to make opening night a huge deal.
Finally after those 18 shows it’s opening night, no more previews, the “gala” performance. And you can be sure they’re making it as big a deal as possible. I’ve agreed to work “extra security”, thinking it’ll be an experience for sure. I show up at 4pm, dozens of tables have been set up outside the theatre, caterers are running around filling glasses with water and mixing drinks, people in pretty party clothes are not allowed in yet but you can see some milling about already. I’m given a 2XXL black SECURITY shirt and told to “make it work”. Which is harder than a Project Runway challenge considering my budget is ummm $0.00 and it has to be completed ummm NOW, I don’t even get a pair of scissors or a safety pin, oh and it must be tucked into khaki pants. For a red carpet event (no joke, I watched them set it up.) Needless to say, I will not be looking fabulous for this portion of the evening. Balls. I tuck my dress-of-a-shirt in and can at least be amused. The armpits fall down to my waist.
My security station is next to a bar. Not the bar, a bar, there are three others. Sky Vodka, wine, cocktails, bar tenders doing their thing. It’s all under my security. Hells yes. There’s a promo for a new cocktail, and the beverage obviously sponsoring the night. “Tava” is a new brand of sparkling no calorie fruit drink. I drank quite a fucking few as they were all over the theater and I can report it’s a pretty decent drink. And they make for good cocktails. “Tavatinis.” I overhear someone say, “Come here my little Tavatini” and almost die. Clearly all real New Yorkers quote/reference Sex and the City on a daily basis. Hells yes exclamation point.
Unfortunately, security guards are not supposed to almost die due to funny things patrons say, or really laugh ever. Well fuck that, it’s a party. I am going to smile at people. And I do. I don’t even attempt a mug, a security scowl. Well surprise, surprise, I am pretty much the worst, least intimidating security guard ever. And that’s not just me being pessimistic. Over the next 4 hours I am approached by 3 catererrs and 3 guests “You don’t look like a security guard, who’d you fuck?who do you know who got you the job?” “You’re to cheery to be security.” “Don’t they usually give this job to big threatening men?” “ooo, I’m really intimated. ha ha.” “Here, let me help you practice a mug.” “Is your shirt on backwards?” Thanks, thanks so much.
It is a spectacular people watching situation, in fact I am being paid to people watch. And the people I’m watching all paid at least $1,500 to get into this party. That makes it even more interesting, and the fashion is fascinating. I note a beautiful, flowy, floral, orange dress one woman is wearing. It’s fabulous. And 10 minutes later another woman walks in wearing the same dress. That sucks. And one of course looks way better in it than the other. There’s one woman on the arm of a man in a fucking fabulous jumpsuit. Floral, sheer light fabric. It is awesome. New New York goal for me: be able to rock a jumpsuit. It’s hard to do, but if you can it really boosts you up a level. Another New York goal: get into fabulous parties as a date. Best case senerio? I’m working on it.
For the moment, I’m flirting with caterers. They’re all really cute, in pressed white shirts and black pants, likely having more interesting endeavors that don’t pay the bills, and here the ratio is skewed in a way I rarely see in my business: way more men than women. My flirtations are rewarded with dessert trays inconspicuously made available to me before the return trip to the kitchen and as much Tava as I can chug down when no one’s looking. $1,500 buys you decadent desserts that your diet probably doesn’t allow. Score one for me (me: one, them: 1,500).
As this is a red carpet, gala event people watching reaches its peak when I see cameras flashing. These photographers have a pretty shitty job, snapping pictures of famous people, being kinda annoying, and the majority of the time are just completely ignored. It’s hard to describe, but it was weird to watch and I sort of felt bad for them. But yes, there are famous people milling about in front of me. Which is kinda cool, but also kinda scary. If there was an actual security situation I would not know what the fuck to do. I glance at Kim Raver at least 10 times before I finally place her as the actress who plays Nico on Lipstick Jungle. Steve Martin is there and I resist the urge, “I love your books! They’re all I want to read right now!” One of my favorite actresses ever is there. Cynthia Nixon, looking fabulous. That was cool. But interaction with famous people is weird. They’re just people. The I-know-who-you-are-but-you-don’t-know-who-I-am deal is awkward. And they look a lot littler in real life. Which is kinda cool when you can be like “You know what? I honestly never want to be that skinny.”
So yeah, there are famous people at this deal, but it’s totally not my place to interact with them. There’s not much joy praising someone who gets recognized on the street and hears it every day. It much more awesome for the semi to not really at all famous, who rarely get recognized and you can instantly tell are not jaded by fame. Like the people in the play I’m ushering. I ran into one of the guys who has a really small ensemble part on the subway and there I could tell my compliments to him really meant something.
And then the show after opening. We’re back to the usual ushering, no security, no $1,500 minimum, no fancy dresses, no red carpet. No celebrity people watching.
Hello, can you help me find where this is? he hands me the ticket.
Of course! You’re in Section L which is right here, but as you’re seat 710, you’re actually on the far left, so you’re gonna want go up those stairs and keep to your left.
Thanks a lot. and he smiles at me!
You’re welcome, enjoy the show!
I have this exchange in various forms a dozen times a night. But this time it was with James Franco. Yep, Daniel DeSario of Freaks and Geeks, Spiderman’s Harry Osborn. He’s with a blonde, wearing a leather jacket and has the same melt worthy smile you’ve seen on screen. How to put this….squee! rather sums it up. Somehow I was fucking professional, didn’t make a fool of myself, and didn’t even get fired for jumping a patron. Hells YES. The concept of celebrity still weirds me out, but that was pretty fucking awesome.
It has been a good week.
(there was an after party post-show where cast and crew where invited too. Open bar, good food, dancing, theater people as well as big bucks patrons, no more security. I traded my 2XXL shirt for an awesome dress, mingled, danced, and got a little sloshed. Fashionably sloshed. Lots of fun.)
Yesterday was the first hot, humid, ah-this-is-ny-summer day. The air hovering between buildings and when you gulp in air you can taste the water droplets in it. Sans sun screen equals skin cancer doom. Where even if you put on SPF 45 you might get burned anyway (check for yours truly) and NYC becomes Dehydration City. The poor actors in the play, doing outdoor theatre on a 90 degree night costumed in wool suits, blowing on their hands during lines about the “bitter cold” while streams (some rivers) of sweat cascade down their faces.
Yesterday was also my first real world date. First date that didn’t involve any kind of “let’s hang out/ ‘hang out'”, “just come over to my place”, “I guess we could watch a movie/ ‘watch a movie'”, “I dunno, what do you want to do?”. A “I want to take you to” date. A “I’m going to pay for freakin everything even if it’s expensive and that makes you feel slightly awkward” (But not too awkward. I’m too poor to feel too awkward) date. First date with Central Park Guy.
He took me, yes direct quote “I want to take you” (and I’m not sure how I feel about that phrase), to the MOMA. Which must have been a lucky or intuitive guess on his part because I love museums, art, and modern art especially. Although “lucky” is a relative word, poor guy had no way of knowing I am a museum fiend. Get me in a museum and I won’t be satisfied unless I see everything. At least walk by everything. Now this is a tall, tall order in the MOMA which has six expansive floors that I haven’t seen in four years, since the summer after freshman year with Maggie. On that last visit we spent six (really, that’s not poetically inflated) hours in the museum, to the point where if we didn’t buy overpriced food at the museum cafe we were going to collapse.
Well this trip I was able to squash the fiend part of me (was that hiding part of my core self? oooh for shame!) with the consolation that umm..I fucking live here now (!!!) and theoretically can visit this museum everyday. We still managed to cover a lot of ground. Three floors; prints, photography, special exhibits, some painting; talk of art(duh), how minds work, travels, ethnicity (he’s Greecian, Middle Eastern, Russian Jew…uh I’m a WASP, for lack of an easier description) home towns, vegetarian escapades, feminism, Nick Drake, pain, challenging convention and changing the world (no I’m not kidding and he brought it up). No awkward silences, he’s interesting, intelligent, even has a sense of humor, annnd is fun to talk to.
I was enjoying myself and ended up spending the entire day with him. After 3 hours of MOMA he started to get bored and really I should have just ended everything right there, I mean I can’t see things going anywhere with a museum wuss and we were both hungry so we ventured out into the heat to search for lunch which lead to sushi at a restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen (check! learned where Hell’s Kitchen is!). By the time we’re done eating I’m still not sick of him, and he’s clearly not sick of me because we end up walking in Central Park.
We end up lying on the grass of the Great Lawn, watching the clouds go by and talking about the value of alone time. Now if you know me, you know I need alone time on par with the need for water, air, food. Almost on par. And I love finding people who understand that. Talk to me about this or tell me I was good in a play and I am sold. Prone-to-making-bad-decisions sold. Better-than-tulips sold. So here we are: gorgeous day, hot weather but now augmented by a lovely breeze, beautiful lawn, conversations that make me melt, guy lying next to me who I think I might kinda sorta like, when uh oh, his hands touched mine, fuck he’s going for my hand! fuck we’re going to have to have The Talk.
Holding hands. What may easily be considered the most simple and innocent intimate gesture is the most emotionally fraught for me, carries the most bagage and embarassment. And feels so retro in a poodle skirt kind of way.
Hey I have to tell you something. This is kinda weird, and usually only happens when I’m hot..um… I’m prone to having really sweaty hands. I say, holding up my hand as evidence. Yep. We’re not at the sweats-actually-dripping-off point thankfully but as usual, you can physically see the moisture on my palm. This is met not with the usual gasp, “ew”, or some other exclamation but a simple What are you gonna do. As in whatever. As in “I don’t care”. And then a story about the parels of deodorant. Some marathon runner who covered his whole body in deodorant and ended up dying because of it. Sweat or death? My clammy existence is looking better already. No one has ever successfully made me feel better about my affliction. No one. Might kinda sorta like? Change that to definitely kinda sorta like. And the next thing I know I’m one of those people macking it on the grass in Central Park (cliche enough for you?), not thinking about the girls softball game yards away nor that PDA may make people like myself cringe. Not thinking about that. Just the prospect of a definite kinda sorta like.
I’m sitting on a park bench reading Shopgirl. The story differs from your typical chick lit novella in that it is written by a man, Steve Martin to be exact. It is written in a refreshing 2nd person style. I’m enjoying it. Engrossed in my reading, semi-sickly relating to the protagonist and wondering what the comments on my own life would be were they reported in this way, suddenly I’m approached.
“Can I talk to you about something?”
Having just been questioned by a father and daughter as to where one can find boats, (my answer: nooo idea, but I felt sillily cool that I must look like someone who would know) I look up expecting a tourist- “Where’s the MET?” A bum- “Gimmie a quarter.” Or a creeper- “Buy a Roladex from the side of my trench coat.”
None of the above.
He’s a guy in his 20s, cute, slim but not scrawny, scruffy brown hair, with a small pimple near his nose which for some reason I am able to find strangely endearing.
“If you’re trying to sell me something, I’m not going to buy it.” I say.
Retorted with an appropriate chuckle, “No I’m not going to sell you anything, I’m not even going to try to force a Bible on you. Can I just talk to you for a couple minutes?”
Well, he promised no selling, no Bibles…I can run away to work if/when necessary. “You can try.”
He sits down next to me on the bench, introduces himself, then, “You know those guys who get a dog out of the hope the animal will help them pick up girls?”
“What do you think about that?”
This turns into a 10 minute conversation that stays pretty close to the subject, bouncing around from I’m a proven non-dog person to You can’t assume the theoretical guy got the theoretical dog for this reason to What is honesty.
So what? So where is this going? “So are you on a deadline for an article or something?” Are you writing a blog? Cause that’s where I know this story’s going for me. “No,” he replies, “I’m just sick of “the game” and people trying to get together by fooling each other. I just want to talk to people and be real and I was hoping I could get your phone number.“
This motive had crossed my mind, but just barely as I am notoriously oblivious in such matters. Well, I know what at least 2 of you are thinking: yes I felt like this was straight out of Sex and the City (in theaters in less than 24 hours!) too.
My inner Miranda burbled up, “So how many times have you tried this tactic” -it carried on way too long to be a line- “before?” When his reply was an innocent, “What?” I decided not to repeat myself. Let’s not be mean for once. He’s cute, seemingly smart, perhaps a little awkward, and with signs that hint to me he may prove obnoxious. But I really don’t know. Let’s try benefit of the doubt. Why not? People who have just left the large majority of their friends in other states may want to cast pickiness to the winds. Momentarily? At least give it a try?
I gave him my number. Yep. I got picked up on a Central Park bench my first full day in Manhattan. I’m off to a great start.