Metropolitan

About a month ago, Jeff and I went to the Metropolitan, in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Nothing interesting happened. We met a friend from Park Slope there. Had some beers. Went back home. But it was a personal triumph for me and Jeff. An exorcism of sorts. We had been avoiding the place for over a year because of what we remembered about the last time we were there. Last fall, somewhere in the early days of November 2004, we met a friend there who would be found in his apartment a couple of weeks later dead from a heroin overdose.

We called him and persuaded him to meet us at the Metropolitan one night. He just wanted to stay for one drink. He had to get away for a little bit because he was having an argument with his roommate. We persuaded him to stay a little longer. He told about the argument. A plate was thrown and broken. It was something stupid. We told him we wanted him to come over for Thanksgiving, and we made tentative plans. Jeff and I were still new to the city, he having been here five months and I having been here just over one, and we were both hungry for friends. This guy was brand-new to us, but we felt like we were on a path toward something real. He was full of stories and jokes. He was comfortable and familiar after very little time. He had not the easiest life, but he wasn't full of blame. He was just making do like anyone else. And he seemed so directed and in charge of himself.

The way he told it, he was at a point in his life where he was trying to ease into his 30s and settle himself a bit, to shed some drama and the people who bring trouble down on him. He was no stranger to drugs. He was known at at certain East Village connection points. But but he wasn't irresponsible. He always took care of himself. And he wasn't stupid. I remember he made a point of telling us once that he never touched heroin. He'd seen too many horror stories. And we believed him.

Jeff and I hadn't heard from him since the Metropolitan a couple of weeks later. We knew he'd had some recent trouble with his phone, so we didn't necessarily expect a call. We just didn't know how to get a hold of him. So we walked into an East Village bar where we often hung out with him, half expecting to run into him. And we did, in a manner of speaking.

After a few minutes there, I noticed a tall candle burning in a glass enclosure with a note on it. I didn't pay attention at first. Just some bar room bric-a-brac. But Jeff saw it, too, and we soon realized the note read: "For F____."

You wonder sometimes when you don't hear from someone for a while: Man, what if he's dead. What would I do? How sad and weird! What's the last thing we did together? When's the last time we spoke? Wow, just imagine. Heh — I shouldn't think like that. He's fine. I should really call him one of these days.

We called the bartender over. Is that the same F____ we think you're talking about? The bartender lowered his eyes. Yes, it was. And he told us the story: He had been found dead a fews days ago in bed in his apartment. He had been dead three days. It was a heroin overdose. There was a note next to him: "You looked so peaceful sleeping there, I didn't want to wake you. —Ricky." No one knows who this guy Ricky was. We think he's the one who sold it to him. Either it was some bad shit or just a bad decision. Really loved that guy, you know. Everyone knew him. He was a real good guy. The funeral is this weekend in New Jersey. I can get you the information if you want.

Sure, thanks, we said.

We just sat there, silent, sort of stunned. Neither of us could imagine what to say next, except, occasionally, "I just can't believe it."

We left the bar without collecting the funeral information. I don't think either of us wanted to go. He had far closer friends who should be there instead of us. It was a difficult night for us. We went for a good long walk and stayed up late talking about it and getting angry and sad and crying at times. The things you have seem so much more precious when you realize that someone you know has lost them forever. Forever. And what a waste to lose so much — all that goes into 34 years of life — and suddenly, it's wiped out. Jeff and I had each other, so we held tight and remembered and cried for all of the things that would never be.

New York Lesson No. 328: Umbrella Graveyard

As cold weather siezes us by the short and curlies, I begin to see more and more the signs of winter. I have lost count of the number of single gloves I have found littering the sidewalks and subway platforms of New York. Makes me sad, really. Sometimes I see a complete pair left behind by a passeger in a hurry or a distracted mom or a fussy child. But when I see one glove, it reminds me of when I lose one glove. It's an incomplete loss; I'm left with one glove, which I can neither use nor bring myself to throw away. (It's a perfectly good glove.) I'd rather lose two gloves: They're both gone for good and I know where I stand.

The dead-glove phenomenon reminds me of the springtime equivalent: abandoned busted umbrellas. New York sidewalks become a graveyard of umbrella carcasses whenever it rains. First, it must be noted that New Yorkers will pull out their umbrellas at the first sign of any precipitation, be it a single drop (probably from someone's high-rise air conditioner, anyway), a misty drizzle, a light snow flurry — whatever. (Those of us from Michigan and Minnesota wonder: "an umbrella in the snow?")

They're ubiquitous and cheap, and therefore easy to leave behind. How they miss the garbage cans on nearly every corner remains a mystery to me. Maybe the useless, impotent spines of a stripped and torn umbrella, shreds of soggy fabric flopping in the wind, are more demonstrative. You can count on it — someone right here earlier today had a hell of a time. Right here. You can almost feel their anguish, their rage, their frantic searching for a 99-cent store, their wet pant cuffs and sopping socks. It's a testament to man's struggle against nature. Poetry, almost.

Almost.

New York Lesson No. 329: Large Bills, Small Change

I resent having no choice at 99% of the ATMs out there but to get $20 bills. I remember a time when one could get $5 and $10 bills as well as the 20s depending on the amount requested. Now, rarely, I'll find one that dispenses 10s.

What am I gonna do about it, though, right?

All I had one morning was a $20 bill, and I really wanted a bagel. I stopped at Kossar's Bialys on the way to work, because their bagels are lovely. I asked the baker for a sesame-seed bagel and sheepishly pulled the bill out of my wallet — "It's all I have," I pleaded pre-emptively. One glimpse of Andrew Jackson and she began to protest, rolling her eyes and sighing loudly.

"Oh, no, no, no, no," she said.

"OK, I'm sorry," I said, turning red, wanting to run. "I'll just come back later."

I was willing to run down to Rite Aid or something and get a pack of gum to get change so I could run back for the bagel. (They're good bagels!) But I guess she recognized me from my many visits there, because she told me to go ahead, take the bagel, and just come back later to pay her. Because, as she sized me up and committed my face to memory, she knew: If I did not pay her, I'd never be able to set foot in that place again.

I was shamed. I had just bought a 65-cent bagel on credit.

I returned to pay her back just minutes later after getting a coffee down the block. I tried to give her a whole dollar for her trouble but she refused and gave me back 35 cents.

New York can be a small town, too.

She might have taken a $20 later in the day after collecting a lot of smaller bills and loose change. The typical purchase at Kossar's must be less than a couple bucks per person. And it's a pain to take a bunch of smaller bills early in the morning. I was once verbally flogged at a post office in Minneapolis for daring to use a $20 bill early in the morning.

"You know, you're lucky we do the early-bird service. And now you're gonna come in here and gimme a twenty? Gimme a break."

So much for Minnesota Nice.

Incidentally, a friend of mine recently got two $50 bills from an ATM when he withdrew $100 from his account. To his gastronomical disappointment, none of the Indian restaurants in my neighborhood would take a $50 from him. So, he had to do without some really, really good chow.

...Until he came upon a Taco Bell that would take his $50.

He was forced to substitute a burrito supreme for sag paneer. Thanks, Chase Manhattan!

Bright Eyes, Big City

My friend Marc and I were walking through Chelsea one night last summer looking for ice cream when we were accosted in a very friendly and not unpleasant manner by a very strange woman.

We walked up and down 8th Avenue well into nightfall, but the temperature was still probably in the high 80s or low 90s. Such is heat retention in the city. The ice cream, sweet bliss in the summer heat, melted at an alarming rate and began dripping down the cones and the paper wrappers into our hands and down our wrists. The minuscule napkins Ben & Jerry's gave us were hardly enough for a nose blow, let alone a torrent of chocolate goo. I had to be careful not to dribble all down my front. We ate (licked, sucked, slobbered) quickly to avoid disaster and embarrassment, and I ended up with a stomach ache.

At some point, a woman ran up to us from behind and tapped Marc on the shoulder. We turned around and she looked down at my friend's chest. I noticed this, because I thought it was weird she wasn't looking at his face.

"Sorry to bother you, but I have to ask you about your shirt," she said.

It was a Bright Eyes shirt. White silk screen on black or dark-dark green or something. The front displayed the words "Bright Eyes" and a drawing of a guy throwing up into a toilet, but instead of vomit, it was a stream of ones and zeros. Very techie. Very Matrix. Very New Century.

I recognized the woman as someone we had just passed. Apparently she had caught a glimpse of his shirt and now wanted to inspect it more closely. People do this all the time with my Trash Can Sinatras t-shirt, which displays a single-color silhouette of a clothesline in a strong breeze. Marc seemed pleased if not startled by the attention, and eager to talk about the shirt.

This happened to me once. A guy about my age once stopped me and asked me about my Batman t-shirt. "Dude, I love your shirt." He asked me where I got it from. "I don't mean to insult you. I mean, I'm sure it's, like, vintage. Have you had it, like, forever? I mean, did you get it around here?" I told him I got it at a place on 5th Avenue near 34th Street. You can find 'em anywhere, I said. (I did not say specifically that I got it at one of those cheap tourist t-shirt stores near the Empire State Building.) I was impressed that he stopped to ask and flattered by the attention. A friend of mine later told me the guy just wanted to get into my pants and I should learn to recognize when people are flirting with me. Another friend told me the guy probably knew I got it from some cheap tourist store and was mocking me.

Anyway, you never know what you're going to get with a random stranger who stops you on the street to ask you about your clothes. And with this woman, we definitely did not know what we had on our hands (apart from dried, sticky, melted ice cream).

"That shirt," she said. "I have to ask you something. What's going on here?"

"Well," Marc said, "Bright Eyes is this band I really like, and —"

"Yeah, I know who Bright Eyes is," she said. "But what's this?" She gestured to the figure crouched over a toilet.

"Well," he said, sort of nervously looking at me, "this guy is throwing up? But he's throwing up ... um ... binary code."

"Uh, huh." she said. "There's something I need you to help me understand."

"Yeah?"

"Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Um... I need you to help me understand something."

We waited.

"Well, what does it mean?" she asked.

"Um. I don't know. I just thought it looked cool," Marc said.

"You did," she asked, more accusatory than inquisitive, cocking her head. "'Cause I'm really bothered by this shirt."

We were both thrown for a moment. Marc stammered. "W-w-what?"

I expected: Where did you get the shirt? or How much was it? Or even, lifting her own up over her head and saying brightly Wanna trade? But not this.

"I need you to help me understand something. I mean, do you think this represents his music?"

"Well," Marc began. "Actually..." (he paused to think) "yeah. Yeah, I do — "

Marc knows Bright Eyes. I don't. So I can't even remember what he said. But it took about 30 seconds and it sounded reasonable. Nice thinking on your feet, I thought.

But she pressed on. "Do you think he would like this? This 'throwing up?' Do you think he would want this to represent his music." She sounded not exactly belligerent, but was definitely approaching agitated.

Marc just blinked. "Well, I just said — "

"I need you to help me understand something," she said again, calming herself. In the course of the conversation, she probably said it about five or six times.

Nuts. Just nuts. But she looked so normal. She wasn't drunk and didn't appear to be high. She didn't look like someone who would know where to find drugs anyway. I forget precisely what she was wearing, but let's say it was a beige cotton skirt or khaki shorts with a simple fitted t-shirt and a pair of flip flops. Late summer wear. She could have been a student. Looked about 23 years old. Asian-American. Glasses. Just utterly normal and unthreatening.

It turns out she assumed Marc had made the shirt. That he was ripping Brights Eyes off by using their identity and misrepresenting them or something. We explained that Marc had indeed not made the shirt and that it was probably sanctioned by Conor Oberst himself long ago. Are you some kind of music industry representative or copyright lawyer? we asked her.

No, just some girl.

She doesn't even like Bright Eyes, she said.

"Well, then why do you care?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "I've offended you."

"What? No! No, nevermind. It's fine, it's fine. Just ... what do you want?"

"OK, I've offended you. Well, that's all. I'm .... ah ... I'm gonna go. Sorry. Thanks."

And she turned and walked away.

Marc and I waited a bit in silence, watched her get a good block away from us, and we turned and continued walking in the other direction.

Mmm-mmm!

Another F train story.

There was a man leaning against the doors one morning who noticed a woman sitting across the car. He walked over to her, placing himself directly behind me (I was standing and holding one of those brushed chrome vertical poles), and began flirting with her mercilessly, talking about how he wanted to marry her, how he'd treat her right, how he'd show her what it meant to be a woman, and other vague, thinly veiled sexual promises. "Mmm-mmm!" he'd say. "Mmm-mmm!."

She was attractive but totally average-looking, in my opinion. No better-looking than half the women on the train.

She did her best to ignore him, but he did not let up. So, realizing she was not going to look up at him, the guy started to get belligerent.

She buried her attention deeper in the newspaper she had been trying to read. As I glanced around discreetly, I could see that she was clearly distressed. She may have been looking at the paper but she was definitely not reading it. Her eyes were not moving, and she looked nervous.

Then the train stopped in the tunnel somewhere between Roosevelt Avenue and 21st St. All went quiet. There was not even any unintelligible intercom announcement explaining the delay.

The guy started up again. "I work for myself. I'm my own boss," he said. And "I got me a burger in his bag. I'm saving it for a homeless person." He has so much money, he said. So much money, he's going to go to Germany on business.

I can verify that he had a bag in his hand. But as for the rest of it, I can only assume he was ... exaggerating the truth.

"I got more than 5 G's at home, baby. It's all mine. I'm my own boss. Ain't no one gone tell me what to do."

No one was coming to her aid. She didn't want to cross him; she was scared of him. I did not want to cross him, because he was obviously crazy and not the kind of guy I want to be stuck with on a train in a tunnel.

And then who would come to my rescue? No one.

The train lurched into motion again.

Evidently someone looked at him, because he turned his attention to someone else. "What you looking at?" he snapped. "Fuck you."

Then he began muttering to no one in particular. "People don't mind they own god-damn business. What the hell is wrong wit you?" He said some more about Germany and all his money and his happy employment situation. I don't know who he was talking to. He tried to assail the woman with his charms again, but she was ignoring him.

Then: "You want some money? I got money. I ain't no fool. I'm my own boss. Here, I'll give you some money. I don't need no one." I presumed he was talking to the person who had distracted him. He dug in his pockets and pulled out some change.

No response.

"Here, god-dammit. Take this god-damn money."

The change fell to the floor, either rejected or ignored. It was a couple of quarters, by the look of it. The crazy guy stooped to pick it up in a fury. I seriously thought he was going to hit someone.

He then started to rant and philosophize. More of the same story. More about the hamburger. Sighs were audible all around the car.

Then the train stopped at 21st Street. The doors slid open. And the man tossed his change out the door onto the platform, shouting "Hey, world. Here's some change. Give yourself a wake-up call."

The woman stood up and left the car. I don't know if she got back on. The good news is the guy did not leave the car to follow her. The bad news is the guy did not leave the car. Evidently he had business to attend to in Manhattan. And that's where we went next. He continued talking to people who ignored him. I was desperately hoping he would not approach me. To make sure of it, I also left the car at the next stop, ran forward a few doors, and re-entered the train.

To my annoyance, I discovered I had gotten into the very same car — but at least I was down at the far end from him.

Then, as perfect, perverse luck would have it, he made his way down the car in my direction, leaving a trail of distressed but relieved passengers in his wake. I don't even know what he was saying to people, because I wasn't paying attention to the words anymore.

Then he announced. "I'm gone get off this train. I ain't gone bother nobody no more. Fuck all ya'll! I got to give this here burger to someone. Somebody need this."

He got out at the next stop — "fuck all y'all" — shouting all the way.

Who Are the People in Your Neighborhood: Traffic Lady

Before I changed my hours at work a few months ago, every morning on my way to the subway I used to see a crossing guard at the corner across 82nd Street from a Catholic school in my neighborhood. She directs streams of children and impatient parents across 35th Avenue, on their way to the school on the site, for a couple of hours every weekday.

She is a perfect example of someone who has tured a job I would consider boring, or at least monotonous, into the pin on which the rest of the world spins. She is so earnest in her duties that I was often slightly annoyed by her — I am not a morning person, and usually I'm in a hurry and cranky on the way to work. Now that I get only rare doses of her, I've come to see her as a sort of treat.

She wears her uniform with her black-brimmed white cap and white gloves, her day-glow vest, of course, and always dark glasses, whether the sun is bright or not. If it's raining, she'll have a rain coat on and a clear plastic covering for her hat — and still the day-glow vest.

Her pedestrian traffic-directing zeal is such that I can hear her even before I reach the near side of the street. She steps out onto the corner with her palm raised toward the cars stopping for the red light shining above her head. Then she turns to face the people on my corner waiting for the WALK signal and wildly swings her other hand in a wide, neat circle in front of her, like she's beating the air. It's precision and directness seem almost violent. I imagine she has a strong arm. She calls across, "OK. Cross now. Come on. Come on across!"

She whips that hand around like it's so very important. Like our lives depend on that motion alone. She's showing off how hard she is working for us. Clairee does this in the final scene of the film Steel Magnolias when Annelle goes into labor at the Chinquapin Parish Easter egg hunt. Clairee shoves onlookers aside, sort of side-shuffling across the lawn to clear a path, and using a similar circular forearm motion to direct Annelle to safety, which turns out to be the open passenger side door of Spud's truck 10 feet away. As if Anelle and the friends propping her up on either side couldn't have found it alone — or if Spud might have lost control of the vehicle and careered into the pregnant woman. It has always been, in my mind, one of the unforgivable moments of Olympia Dukakis' performance. (The other big one is her declaration at the Christmas party: "The only thing that separates us from the animals is our ability to accessorize" — a great line, delivered beautifully, but which falls flat when the other actors do not respond, leaving Dukakis to smile dumbly and walk off into the house for no reason. Her Oscar-winning turn in Moonstruck more or less makes up for it, though.)

I'm sure the traffic lady saves kids' lives daily, but I'm not sure how effective she is for the adults. Many people are already crossing before she opens her mouth — or her hands. People cross against the lights all the time. Including myself. I wonder sometimes if she'll ever try to stop anyone from crossing on a red light — rushing into the street to grab someone by the hood or scarf and drag him back to the corner, or standing in someone's way with her arms out and shouting "You won't get past me! I dare ya!"

But I've never seen it.

Her voice is a cross between Cyndi Lauper and Elaine Stritch. "Goo'morning!" she cries, as we pass her. "Goo'mornin', dea-uh. Goo'mornin'. Have a nwice day. Goo'mornin', dea-uh." Despite the automatic, thoughtless way she says it, I think she greets each of us individually. It is at once officious and personable.

Sometimes she'll be talking to a woman with a baby stroller or a small child by the hand and, with the distraction, she is a little less like a toy soldier. Walking by, I catch just a snip of the conversation.

"Yuh kiddin' me."

"Oh, I knaow! I couldn't bullieve it! Huh own dwaughtuh. So, I says to huh, I says..."

I smile and sigh. I love Queens.

Usually I get to that corner after 9 a.m., after she's left. But if I leave early enough, I see her still. She was a regular feature of my day. She is as much a fixture on that corner as the lamp post. I know that if I ever wanted to I could stop and ask her how her morning is going. I could be the lady with the stroller and spend a few minutes chatting. But I really don't think she would care. And honestly, who wants to be responsible for distracting her?

In, around and through

Last night at the bar, my boyfriend Jeff was outside on the smoking patio out front with some friends. I could see them through the floor-to-ceiling windows from where I was standing, safe and warm inside. (I secretly relish the new no-smoking laws.)

I wasn't paying much attention to the smokers, but before long one of my friends ran into the bar in hysterics. A good joke outside, I guessed. I didn't ask. Smokers have their own social structures and habits and laws when they get together, and I think it wise not to interfere.

I learned later that a guy on his way out to smoke, who must have been a.) forgetful, b.) blind drunk, or c.) just blind, smacked into the door at full stride. Cracked his face right into the window. Must have looked great from the other side where Jeff and the guys were standing. He made a funny face and everything. Stood there stunned for a few seconds. It was a scene from a slapstick movie come true.

Naturally, Jeff and the guys later claimed they were laughing with, not at, the hapless gentleman. Seems reasonable. I'll concede, however, that probably the bouncers and the bartender and the drinkers inside and certainly the friends the guy came with were laughing at him.

Whatever his motivation, the guy then opened the door, stepped outside, hopped the short gate between the patio and the sidewalk, and scurried away. I presume he had that smoke somewhere further down the street where it was quieter.