NYC Storytellers and Trains. On Friday I am running from the gym to a meeting with a TV exec in Union Square. I ended my workout early so I could arrive early. The L train stalls in the tunnel under the East River. There is no cell phone reception to text or call. There is a burning metallic smell in the air. The train delay goes on for 5 minutes, then 10, 20, 30 minutes. Suddenly the train starts moving. No explanation is offered.
I arrive at the meeting 15 min late and try not to show my annoyance. We have an excellent conversation about some exciting potential projects and then I have to book it to "The Pattern at Pendarvis" at HERE. I hop back on the train and it zips from Union Square all the way to Soho in about 15 minutes (faster than taking a car during the Friday rush hour). On the train is a loud old Irish guy. This is the same Irishman who asked me for a light outside his 6th avenue building months ago and proceeded to tell me an hour of NYC tales from the golden age about Trump, working for the Daily News, and growing up Irish in NYC. He invited me into his apt, gifted me a classic photo, and told me we should hang out. Anyway, the Irishman -who is properly sauced for a Friday afternoon- plops down on the subway seat, and on top of a woman's jacket. The woman yelps. He shrugs it off and says 'didn't see it, sweetheart' and then looks at me like 'can you believe her?' I realize that he does not recognize me. The Irishman starts chatting up a guy in scrubs and tells him a story about how doctors from saved his life. He's working his charm on this young resident who is thoroughly impressed by his encyclopedic knowledge of NYC, as I was many months ago.
I run off to see the surprisingly subtle and very gentle LGBTQ play "Pendarvis" Afterward I go uptown. No train problems. I arrive at a friend's apartment. There is a biker bro entering the building so I follow behind him. He asks if I live here and I tell him that I'm visiting a friend. He's in a chatty mood. As we walk up the stairs says 'interesting fact about this building: Obama used to live here.' I ask him how he knows and Biker Bro says that when he moved into the building someone told him that, but he was skeptical. Then later on, he was watching a show about Obama and his apt looked exactly like his own apt. He later got confirmation that Obama was on his very floor. "He was in 3E. I am in 3W." Cool and random story, but I wonder why he's telling me this? I push it aside. I go up to friend's apt and he can't open the door. The lock is jammed and he's trapped inside. Is there anyone who can help? I walk back down to the "Obama 3rd floor" and knock on 3W. "Hey, can you help out?' So Biker Bro calls the super but he's an hour away. So then he grabs a screwdriver. My friend works on the door from his side while Biker Bro disassembles the lock from the outside (yes, it is not a good sign that someone can help take apart a door from the outside...who the fuck installed this?) The door is broken open and my friend is free. He tapes the door open. An hour later the super arrives.
Later, I leave and ride the subway back downtown. The NYC quiet has set in. I see a sleeping man using a cardboard box as a blanket.
I arrive at the meeting 15 min late and try not to show my annoyance. We have an excellent conversation about some exciting potential projects and then I have to book it to "The Pattern at Pendarvis" at HERE. I hop back on the train and it zips from Union Square all the way to Soho in about 15 minutes (faster than taking a car during the Friday rush hour). On the train is a loud old Irish guy. This is the same Irishman who asked me for a light outside his 6th avenue building months ago and proceeded to tell me an hour of NYC tales from the golden age about Trump, working for the Daily News, and growing up Irish in NYC. He invited me into his apt, gifted me a classic photo, and told me we should hang out. Anyway, the Irishman -who is properly sauced for a Friday afternoon- plops down on the subway seat, and on top of a woman's jacket. The woman yelps. He shrugs it off and says 'didn't see it, sweetheart' and then looks at me like 'can you believe her?' I realize that he does not recognize me. The Irishman starts chatting up a guy in scrubs and tells him a story about how doctors from saved his life. He's working his charm on this young resident who is thoroughly impressed by his encyclopedic knowledge of NYC, as I was many months ago.
I run off to see the surprisingly subtle and very gentle LGBTQ play "Pendarvis" Afterward I go uptown. No train problems. I arrive at a friend's apartment. There is a biker bro entering the building so I follow behind him. He asks if I live here and I tell him that I'm visiting a friend. He's in a chatty mood. As we walk up the stairs says 'interesting fact about this building: Obama used to live here.' I ask him how he knows and Biker Bro says that when he moved into the building someone told him that, but he was skeptical. Then later on, he was watching a show about Obama and his apt looked exactly like his own apt. He later got confirmation that Obama was on his very floor. "He was in 3E. I am in 3W." Cool and random story, but I wonder why he's telling me this? I push it aside. I go up to friend's apt and he can't open the door. The lock is jammed and he's trapped inside. Is there anyone who can help? I walk back down to the "Obama 3rd floor" and knock on 3W. "Hey, can you help out?' So Biker Bro calls the super but he's an hour away. So then he grabs a screwdriver. My friend works on the door from his side while Biker Bro disassembles the lock from the outside (yes, it is not a good sign that someone can help take apart a door from the outside...who the fuck installed this?) The door is broken open and my friend is free. He tapes the door open. An hour later the super arrives.
Later, I leave and ride the subway back downtown. The NYC quiet has set in. I see a sleeping man using a cardboard box as a blanket.
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