He had big smiles when I got in the cab so I figure it's going to be one of those rides where you talk about silly things, and try to not make the silence too overwhelming. When I used to take cabs a lot in Boston, in my pre-car days, I would always make the cabbie put on the radio and turn it up. But this fella was listening to a game, so I figured I'd ask him who's playing. It's kind of like talking about the weather on the elevator.
"Who's playing?"
"We are."
Okay, note to self: I'm in New York. That would be, the Yankees, correct? I've got my geography down pat in the sports world, I tell you what.
He goes off on a diatribe and isn't it wonderful -- look what I've started. He asked me if I saw the game the other night and I tell him no, but I spent a few hours in a bar in Boston watching the Red Sox lose to an embarrassing degree. He stifled a snort and then zipped his lips, miming a throw of the key out the window.
"I learned, after the last guy in my cab talking about the Red Sox, I plead the fifth. No comment."
I laughed and hoped we'd move on to other things. There's a ton of traffic, and a bunch of police barriers and he says it looks like they're setting up for a parade or something. I was trying to get him to tell me about street festivals, about outdoor concerts, good plays -- and somehow we end up talking about sports again.
I get violent, instant motion sickness. I also have control issues regarding automobiles. New York City cab drivers are certifiably insane, and though I know he would never do anything to risk bumping his livelihood, it's making me nervous that we're carrying on this conversation (about what I presume is Yankees players) via the rear view mirror. I've got my window open in preparation for projectile vomiting. I should have taken the subway.
He starts talking about the amount of money these players get paid -- how much one team will pay for another. I say, "I wish I had that much money that I could be dropping a few million on something like that." He asks me what I'd buy if I had all that money. I'm thinking I'd buy a private limo.
*****
Michael lives on the West side a block from Central Park in a gorgeous apartment with 30 foot ceilings and hardwood floors and a loft. It's meticulously maintained and sparsely decorated. There are geometric lines, clear surfaces and it is very peaceful there. It is a little garden of Zen compared to my house, which is known affectionately as "Chaos Cottage."
He and I meet up there and head down to the dark side of town for a show -- the reason I braved rush hour traffic to get to the city in time: Mr. North is playing the Bowery.
The last time I saw them play, I was moved beyond all mortal bounds. It amazes me how much my mind state factors into how a show affects me. That time, I needed to be saved. Friday night I did not. But I enjoyed them. They put on a fantastic live show. They were worth the trip. But there was no out-of-body experience. I think I need to stop going to shows with expectations like that -- as though I could completely repeat an experience I had at another point in time.
On Saturday I decide I need to add another adornment of some sort to my body. I've been wanting to add to the tattoo on my back for some time now, but the drawing isn't ready yet. So I decided to punch a hole and call it a night.
The girl who does my piercing rocks. She's totally cute and her hair is this big spastic creation, and she's covered in silver. I get her talking about how she became a piercer -- how and when she realized that's what she wanted to do. (Maybe I'm looking for career inspiration.) It was a great revelation, mainly because she had to tell me the story of running away to join the circus. For real.
I've always wanted to run away and join the circus. I wanted to be one of the people who takes care of the horses. And swear to god, that's what this girl did. It was insane to hear her talk about it. Eventually she quit because she was the only groom for 12 horses and they refused to hire another hand.
Based on our newfound bond, I give her creative license over my right ear. She goes to town with pliers and an open flame.
The result is this totally sick piercing that almost made me pass out when she finally put the needle to the skin. It's an S-shaped barbell that goes in behind the top of my ear, winds down through the front and out the back again through the cartilage base at the bottom. It hurt like a motherfucker but it looks pretty cool.
While I was there I fell in love with the tattoo artist who wanted to see the rest of my ink -- he was so beautiful and elfin with twisty black hair and fucked up green eyes. I just wanted to look at him for hours. I took off my shirt so he could see the piece on my back. He put his warm and delicate hands on me and I'm like, be careful buddy -- you have no idea what you're getting yourself into. I'm already half naked.
*sigh*
So it was all cold and raining and I walked around Soho and the Village and around, hitting street fests -- I ate a sidewalk vendor sausage -- in search of a good set of Tarot cards. I really really want a big burgundy deck with no pictures, just gold inlay numbers. I figured I could find something of that nature, but there was not a damn deck to be found.
After walking from Greenwich Village up 80 blocks, my feet hurt and I just wanted to sit somewhere warm and dry. Take a shower, eat my pastrami Reuben.
I get to Michael's apartment. He is at a Sting concert for the evening. Brat. The key to the front door of the apartment doesn't work. I try it for ten minutes. I figure I'm the moron, right? I can't even get in the freakin building for chrissake. I ring all the doorbells. No answer. I sit down on the front steps in the rain and eat my sandwich. Somebody's got to show sooner or later.
Forty-five minutes later this tiny old Russian guy hobbles to the front door and I jump up to ask him to let me in. But he can't get in either. The two of us are standing there in the rain frowning. I offer him some sauerkraut.
He comes up with a brilliant idea. He's lived in this building for 25 years, and he tells me it used to be connected to the building next door. If we can get into that building, we can sneak through the basement to the other side and open the door from there. I think it's a good idea.
I realize today what a fucking moron I can be. I see this little old man -- I could take him out with my pinky -- but it didn't occur to me that this whole thing was a set-up and there might be an entire cellar full of ninjas waiting for me down there. As he goads me into the basement where there's no lights and I have to turn them on bulb by bulb, I see the headlines in my mind. I am a walking textbook front page story. The kind you read and you're like, "Who is this freaking moron? Who is this 27 year old girl crawling into a cellar in the middle of New York City with an old Russian man she's never met?" Isn't that fodder for the Darwin Awards? Christ.
I survive. We get the door open. There are cobwebs in my hair. But I am alive. Still stupid, but alive.
In my next trip to NYC, I will avoid the following: cab drivers in Yankees hats, dusty cellars, and band members who spit openly on stage.
Oh, and if I do run away and join the circus, remind me to steer clear of tigers.
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