Last night I stopped by the Rite Aid in Grand Central to buy some pens. While I was standing at the counter, a crazy person started haranguing the checkers. He was under the impression that someone had told him there was a public restroom in Rite Aid, and he refused to believe that there wasn’t. I made a hasty departure, but, as crazy people seem wont to do, he started following me, trying to strike up a conversation. I kept reversing directions but he stayed on my tail, mumbling stuff like, “This is an outrage! Where are the public facilities! I’m calling the mayor! Maybe I’ll piss in this garbage can, that seems to be the best place!” He kept looking to me for confirmation, as if I was supposed to say, “Sir, I heartily concur. The appalling dearth of public facilities leaves a concerned citizen no recourse but to empty one’s bowel into a trash receptacle.” If he hadn’t been acting so obviously crazy, I would have been glad to point out where the restrooms in Grand Central are (not far from Rite Aid). Anyway, I finally shook him.
I have this problem. I get asked for directions. A lot. I get asked for directions more than anyone I’ve ever met. About once per fifteen blocks, on average. I guess my urban casual dress makes me look like someone who knows where he’s going, and my amiable demeanor makes me look helpful and non-threatening. My ability to get asked for directions is matched only by my total inability to remember street names, which way is north, or where I am. My usual response when someone asks me for directions is to look around and wonder aloud, “Um, I don’t know, what street are we on?” which hardly inspires confidence. Even after consulting a map (which I carry around for exactly this purpose), I’m more likely than not to send people off in the wrong direction.
Take last night. An older couple, probably from abroad, stopped me at the corner of 1st and Bowery to ask me where Eldrige is. Of course I had no idea, so I consulted my map, and told them to head a few blocks west. I walked down to Houston and turned west myself, and passed Eldrige, at which point I realized that it starts below Houston and therefore they wouldn’t find it if they headed west along 1st street like I’d told them. I felt really bad, but I actually managed to find them again and give them correct directions. It’s nice to be so helpful.
On my way back from Derek’s show, which was awesome by the way, a girl from Japan asked me if we were on 1st Avenue. I contemplated this thorny problem for a minute or so, but she and her friends figured it out before I did, so I went on my way. As I approached Grand Central, lost in thought, I suddenly realized that my way was being blocked by a stunningly attractive and fairly intoxicated young woman who smiled and tossed her hair and swayed seductively about an inch from my nose and asked in a flirty way, “Hi. We’re looking for a fun bar to go to around here.” An equally attractive friend of hers stood nearby. I’m sure there’s some parallel universe in which I’m the sort of guy who said, “Sure. There’s this great place just around the corner. The bartender Eddie is a friend of mine. Come on, I’ll introduce you.” But, being me, I just said, “Um…” and spent about a minute trying to remember what street I was on. The young woman added, “Preferably on this street, because we’ve already walked like 15 blocks.” (Obviously tourists. 15 blocks? I mean come on, I had just walked 50 blocks, and I don’t even consider that far.) I determined that I was on Park Avenue at about 39th street, and realized with mounting panic that I didn’t know any bars, fun or otherwise, anywhere near there, and couldn’t even fake it. I said helplessly, “Um, I don’t know fun bars around here, sorry.” Perplexed, she said, “Well, that doesn’t sound very promising.” I said, “Good luck,” and beat a hasty retreat, so that I could go wallow in my own lameness, and wonder why I never get stopped by attractive young women who ask, “Hi. Can you give us a hand? My friend and I were just trying to figure out what some of the major literary influences in Roger Zelazny’s Chronicles of Amber are.” And of course, a few blocks later I remember that I’m carrying my Time Out Nightlife guide, which lists every bar and club in Manhattan. Duh.
Leave a Reply