Sarah and I had just finished a comforting dinner at an old east side pub called Maggie's Place. It was sort of a last supper, close to my departure from New York, in celebration of our friendship as roommates and beyond. We had shared much as post-collegiate young Texas girls in the Big City, dancing around our apartment to Wilco and the Flaming Lips, trying our best to deconstruct the motivations of the three unruly boys who lived upstairs, and bemoaning the lack of Shiner Bock in the northeast. A more careful bird than I, Sarah often told me how much she admired my willingness to take risks in dating, to fearlessly put it all on the line over and over again. I, on the other hand, admired her resolve to do the opposite, to calculate the costs of spending time and energy on men you already knew would swiftly reveal themselves as Mr. Wrong. It was a mutual appreciation we shared, one of us determined to save her investment for the right choice, and one determined to seek companionship at all costs, in whatever short-lived, disastrous forms.
Sufficiently gorged on gourmet meatloaf and macaroni and cheese, we ventured downstairs to the well-shined historic bar for a couple of pints. It was basically empty, in that creepy haunted sort of way, but we were soon joined by a friendly gentleman in a pink oxford shirt, slightly wrinkled. He seemed eager for company, and although we hadn't yet factored a male dynamic into our girls' night out I decided – and Sarah conceded – to allow him to stay and entertain us for a bit. He seemed harmless enough, and hey, he was buying.
His name was Bernard, or Bernie, a classic could-be-foreign-but-probably-just-a-nerd kind of name. In his faint European accent he related some jumbled stories of growing up in Switzerland, skiing, and his seemingly lucrative work in finance at JP Morgan, where Sarah happened to be employed as well. At first it was hard to tell if his slurred speech was an effect the alcohol, the accent, or a bona fide speech impediment, but we shortly came to realize that not only was he far more intoxicated than we had suspected, he was also socially inept AND a racist. His handsomely disheveled appearance was clearly not a deliberate stylistic choice, and also he was not handsome enough to pull it off. All he was getting from Sarah and me was fake laughter and sideways glances, but our distracted responses were no deterrent to his nonsensical rambling.
It was clear that we'd have to make a break for it, so we said polite goodbyes and headed for the door. He would not be stopped – trailed behind us like a lost dog, begged us to join him and his coworkers for sushi at some fancy place across town. Sarah looked at me with horrified eyes. "No," I pronounced firmly. "We're calling it a night."
Unfortunately, at that point Sarah and I were headed in opposite directions, and in my hurry to end the encounter I didn't think to fabricate some alternate route or excuse to go her way. As we parted, Bernie followed me, alone, down the dark street. I ignored him, hoping he would give up and veer off at the corner. As he awkwardly walked backwards beside me on the sidewalk, he groped for my hand. I recoiled. He backed off and apologized. He asked me for my number. I declined. When we stopped the street corner I prayed for the traffic to allow me to cross quickly, but he hailed a cab and begged me to get in, said we could share a ride heading north and then I could decide if I wanted to join him for sushi.
I sighed. I was standing on the threshold of choice, of adventure, and at that instant I didn't really want to go straight home, even with the crossing signal’s red hand flashing at me like an admonition from across the street. The prospect of free sushi will impair anyone's judgment. I got in the cab.
I barely had enough time to cast my eyes toward the heavens and pray for a safe journey back to Queens. After a mere two blocks, Bernie slurred, "I have to pee," and with a pound on the front seat divider the cab lurched to a halt. I watched this drunk, desperate, pink-shirted man stumble out of the cab, walk pointedly over to the metal security grating of a closed business, unzip his pants, and begin to urinate. I could hear his stream whizzing off the metal in the still summer air.
I stared straight ahead. I understand that one of the benefits of having a penis is that you can pee wherever you want, of course, but what kind of person does this? Recognizes his need to relieve himself and pinpoints the sidewalk on East 47th street as the nearest acceptable place to do it? Especially in the presence of a woman, one he was so determined to win over? You go to JAIL for pissing on the street in New York! No slap on the wrist – hard core New York City JAIL! And here was a real, live Urinator, attempting to woo me with a cab ride and raw fish. I don't know what reeks more.
There in that cab, time stopped, and I found myself at yet another threshold of decision. I closed my eyes. I placed my hand on the cab door handle and drew in a quick breath of action, but before I could open my eyes he was already back in the car, relieved, oblivious, filthy, and we were moving. Uncertainty gave way to sheer curiousity. I held on. At the next stoplight, Bernie checked his wallet. "Oh, shit," he muttered. "Can you pay for this?" Apparently he'd reached his ATM withdrawal limit for the day after paying his rent in cash and would have to wait until midnight, which was over an hour away.
Oh, HELL no.
This time my hand connected with the door handle with gloriously follow-through to the outside world. "Wait, wait, please, " he beckoned. "What did I do wrong?"
I blinked at him.
I should’ve told him he was a socially retarded racist freak.
I should’ve told him that no amount of free sushi would be worth the cost of withstanding his disgusting presence another minute longer.
I should’ve told him he was the sole reason New York smells like piss in August.
I should've laughed in his face.
I should've told him to FUCK OFF.
Maybe it was pure exasperation, but my inner southern girl politeness took over, and I left him with something like, "You just...have a very...interesting...way of going about things." With that, I slammed the cab door in his face and escaped ironically into the safety of the subway.
Even after 3 years in New York, I still deferred to my innate southern affability when tested. Somehow I couldn't connect my mouth to my outrage at this caveman’s behavior. I’m sure lots of women would do the same thing. Some friends with whom I’ve shared this story were surprised I didn’t pony up and pay for the cab, so I suppose it is a small triumph after all. I’d like to think, though, that I get better at it every time, that I am quicker to point my finger in the face of ridiculousness with each instance of outrage that I swallow and digest. I've certainly told some assholes where to go since then, in one way or another. I'll just keep practicing, so I'll be ready for my ultimate moment of brilliant castigation when it finally finds me. There are a lot of idiots out there. It's bound to happen.
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