We arrived in New York City and tried our best to avoid the chaotic crowds of pedestrians downtown. But this proved to be difficult inasmuch as our cab driver was driving on the sidewalks. We tried to ask him to slow down, but he was too busy on a video call.
Ah, New York. Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate this place, but I appreciate it in much the same way I appreciate, say, dental implants. This is a stressful city. Namely, because everyone here is in a big hurry. You can feel everyone’s energy constantly pulsing around you with the intensity of a trauma unit.
Downtown, I was perpetually approached by people on the street who were either trying to sell me something, trying to save my eternal soul, trying to collect my spare change, or attempting to welcome me into a reputable place of business with a name like, “G-String Theory.” Meanwhile, I was dodging bike messengers traveling upwards of 60 mph whose pupils were the size of subatomic particles.
Years ago, the first time I visited New York City, one of the first things I learned was that few residents know what to do when they meet someone who holds open the door for them. I was raised to hold open the door for anyone approaching a place of business, restaurant, community establishment, or penal institution. So, I held the door for an elderly woman who was exiting a restaurant.
She looked at me aghast and said, “What, you don’t think I can open my OWN door?”
“Huh?” I replied.
“Are you a sexist?”
“No, ma’am, it’s just…”
“‘MA’AM!?’ Who you callin’ ma’am? Are you saying I’m old?”
“No, ma’am… I mean, Miss, I was just…”
Then she cracked a smile. “Relax,” she said with a grin, “I’m only teasing. Welcome to New York.”
Then she touched my shoulder and added quite sincerely, “Now give me your [bleeping] wallet.”
Then we just laughed and laughed. But not very hard.
So everyone in New York is very cool. They wear the latest fashions and the most current trends. New York is a place so hip that coolness experts call it “the pelvis of America.”
Here, they wear high-end shoes and brandish the most geometric hairstyles. Walking around this place while clad in my khaki shorts and my “George” T-shirt purchased directly from Walmart ($6.98) makes me feel about as hip as a root canal.
The people here are so cool that even their pets wear sunglasses. Seriously. I saw a guy downtown whose chihuahua was wearing aviator shades. The dog’s name was Taco. Taco was very fun, and he even had a tip jar.
Whenever Taco had to use the bathroom, if there were no trees around, his owner would unfurl a small piece of absorbent astroturfing and place it on the sidewalk directly beneath Taco’s little anatomical region. During Taco’s moment of evacuatory reverie, his owner would play a recording of Richard Strauss’s “Zarathustra,” the opening theme of “2001: A Space Odyssey,” and passersby would applaud heartily. Taco earned many tips for this.
“New York,” his owner remarked. “Hell of a place.”
We spent most of the day exploring. We even rode the subways, which was fun. One nervous and jittery subway passenger was looking at me as though he recognized me. I know he was thinking this because he was mumbling, “You look like Brandon.”
“Brandon must be a very handsome man,” I replied.
“Brandon eats [bleep]!” he shouted.
I smiled. “Maybe Brandon has a nutritional deficiency.”
“Brandon can go to hell!”
I offered a friendly grin and jingled the change in my pocket. “We’re already there, brother.”
After an interesting subway ride, we did some sightseeing, then stopped at a coffee shop to address our physiological need for caffeine.
Inside the shop was a young man, dressed in rags. He was hanging out at the counter, speaking to the baristas in gibberish.
“Do you want any coffee, Brandon?” said my wife.
I smiled. But not with my heart.
“Yes, please.”
I kept watching the young man in rags. A few of the young man’s words were recognizable, but most of them were unintelligible vowel sounds.
But the baristas just patiently listened to him as a long line of customers grew behind the young man. The servers just nodded and smiled at the young man even though they obviously didn’t understand a word he was saying.
Finally, one of the servers interrupted, “Would you like a coffee, Larry?”
Larry started nodding, and he even began to cry. “Yes, yes! But no money!”
“I know, Larry,” said the server.
“No money!” cried the young man.
“It’s alright, Larry,” said the server again. “I know you don’t have money.”
Whereupon the barista handed him a hot cup, and the young man left.
The next customer in line, an older businessman, was so moved by what we had all just witnessed that he placed cash on the counter.
He said, “I’d like to pay for the coffee you just gave that young man.”
The barista smiled and said it wasn’t necessary. Larry always comes in here, she said. It’s no big deal.
At which point, the woman in line behind the businessman dug into her purse and said, “And I’d like to pay for the other coffees you’ve probably given that boy.”
Now the barista looked like she might cry, too.
“Does he come in here often?” asked one man.
The server nodded. “Almost every morning. He’s my brother.”
New York. Hell of a place.
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Originally published on Sean’s website. Republished here with permission.
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