I got off the bus this morning at Port Authority, and hurried down the sidewalk to get to work. It was 9 a.m. I had nightmares last night for some reason – woke up literally drenched in sweat – so I was still dealing with the aftereffects of that, trying to shake it off. I feel a bit rumpled up, emotionally. So what I’m trying to say is is that my body may have been rushing down 8th Avenue, but my mind and soul was elsewhere.
I approached the deli where I always get my coffee.
For whatever reason, a man standing out in front of one of the little shops on the way, caught my eye. He was tall, strapping, and he was looking right at me.
As I passed by, I heard him say, in an accent, “Hello, darling.”
Sometimes when you get random comments on the streets, it is annoying. Other times it is like a small acknowledgement of the pleasing nature of your very existence, and the “Hello darling” was like that. I smiled. “Hello.”
I went into the deli to get my coffee. Self-serve. And as I poured myself a cup, suddenly there was tall, strapping “Hello, darling” man, beside me, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He had followed me into the deli – I began to laugh. He said, “What is so funny? I just want to talk to you for a minute. My name is John.”
“Hello, John. I’m Sheila.”
“Where are you from? Ireland?”
“Uh … well … originally, yes. But … no…” (This is all as we are pouring coffee. I was not taking any of this seriously. He had followed me into the deli, on the ruse that he wanted a coffee, and I found it funny.)
“I see you every day,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“You walk by me every day and I always want to talk to you but you are always in a hurry.”
“Well … I’m going to work.”
“You have to take 5 minutes right now and talk to me. Just 5 minutes.”
“Uh … okayyy…”
“Why is that so weird? I like you. I would like to talk to you.”
“No, that’s fine – I’m just laughing because … I don’t know … you followed me in here and I think that’s kind of comical.”
“I wanted a coffee!!” But he said it in a jokey way, to let me know he knew that he was full of shite.
He said, “So. Where do you think I’m from?”
Now this is where it gets really funny, if you think about it.
I surveyed his face. Please remember that we are standing in a crowded deli, in the middle of a morning rush, standing in front of the coffee urns, holding up the line.
I saw olive skin, and dark black curly hair with a little grey on the sides. I saw very strong blunt features. I could not place his accent. I took the time to examine his face.
Now – that morning, of course, after waking up from the sweaty nightmares, I had read my daily chapter of Black Lamb and Grey Falcon by Rebecca West. So – I don’t know – I got a very strong Balkan vibe from the guy.
So I guessed. Randomly. “Croatia?”
He put his coffee down with a look of utter shock. Obviously, I had hit the jackpot.
I started to laugh again. “Wow, that’s so weird. I don’t know. You seem very Balkan-ish to me or something.”
He was now, obviously, deeply in love with me. “I am from Croatia!! I am from Croatia!!” he exclaimed loudly, in joy, like a total lunatic. An onlooker, having no idea what was going on, would have thought that the gentleman in question was having a random outburst of nationalistic fervor.
“It was a wild guess.”
“You are obviously Irish, my darling.”
(He called me “my darling”. It was 9 a.m., on 8th Avenue.)
I grabbed the reins of the encounter back and started to the cashier. He said, still fiddling with the cream cartons, “Wait – wait – don’t leave yet – don’t leave yet …”
I paid. He was hovering beside me. He walked me to the door of the deli – as though – it was so funny – He let me go out first. He had this old-worldly manner, and he also behaved, for a second, like a prom date in the 1950s. Letting the lady go first, etc. But we’re leaving a DELI on 8th Avenue. It was charming. For some reason. And not insane or psychotic. Usually when strangers talk to you in New York it’s kind of an insane moment where you are confronted with someone’s mental illness, or they need something from you, desperately. That’s why you have to have your guard up. But Croatian man didn’t seem like that.
We stood on the corner of 8th and 39th, talking for a moment. He asked me where I lived. I was appropriately vague. He told me all about his house that he owns. He told me his job. HE TOLD ME HIS SALARY. I found that highly amusing. And also kind of charming, actually. He was building a case for himself. “I make such-and-such an hour. I have been the super in that building for 15 years. I live in a house I own out in such-and-such a neighborhood. How old do you think I am?”
“Uh … 40?”
He started to laugh. I was obviously way off. So I went in the other direction. “50?”
He was very offended. He was OBVIOUSLY not 50. But I could not guess his age as easily as I guessed his Croatian roots.
I said, “I have no idea. You’re obviously not 50.”
“I am 34.”
The man does not look 34.
I said, “You are NOT 34.”
Then he showed me his drivers license.
“Okay, then. You’re 34. Please forgive me.”
“How old are you?”
“I will not tell you that.”
Then he launched into this: “I have lunch every day from 12 to one and I want to have lunch with you. Please give me your number.”
“I don’t give out my phone number.”
“Then take my phone number.”
Now I was late for work. “Don’t you have a card or something?” I asked.
“It’s back at my office. No – don’t you have a pen? Write it down.”
Believe it or not, I looked in my bag and I did not have a pen. This is such a rarity in my life that I could hardly believe it myself. He peered into my bag (who is this Croatian??) and saw my makeup case with an eyeliner. “Use that.” I wasn’t really wacky on the whole phone-number-exchange, to be honest. I mean, I certainly appreciated his forthright manner, and his pursual. You don’t see much of that these days. At least not in the streets of New York City, as you get your coffee.
He took my eyeliner out of my bag, and wrote down his # on a scrap of paper.
“Okay, then – I have to go now.” I said.
“Please call me. Any time. We can have lunch. I just want to talk with you. I see you every day. Okay? Okay?”
“Okay, John. Bye!”
And then I was off. Chuckling to myself as I headed towards my building.
So that’s what just happened.
For me, the best part of the whole encounter (which chased away the nightmares, incidentally) was that I guessed Croatia. It looked like I had made his day with that one.
Admittedly, I didn’t see his body language and I guess I’m a little jaded but I cannot imagine any innocence on his part in that exchange.
Sheila,
Charming story, but I’m jealous to know that I have a rival (wink).
Rob – who said anything about innocence?
Are you sure that wasn’t part of the dream? When you got to work after meeting him, were you naked? When you walked out of the deli, did you have a “falling” sensation?
Anyway, it probably took the guy months to work up the nerve.
Ed, there you go – that’s kind of what it felt like. That it was a continuation of the dream. It didn’t seem real. Especially when he said “my darling”.
Why would you think it was funny if it wasn’t innocent? If the man meant you harm…..that’s what I meant by not innocent.
Did I miss something?
Croats. Hahahahahahahahahaha. I love those guys. They are so unabashedly, entertainingly direct. They are the most fun people in the world. Of course if you piss them off they will slit your throat in a nanosecond.
Wait, now I’m totally confused. Now I have no idea what you meant by:
I cannot imagine any innocence on his part in that exchange.
Help??
I am sure he didn’t mean me harm. I found him rather charming, and a little bit loony.
CW: Thanks for the tip. HA!!
Are you gonna call him?
In the movie I just wrote in my head, Patrick, thanks to Sheila’s brilliant description of 10 minutes at a deli, she calls him.
Emily:
I must hire you as the script-writer for my own life. Write me some good peppy dialogue, won’t you?
She HAS to at least call him. Come one! Doesn’t a guy get any cred for being ballsy? This is the sort of thing that we wish someone would do. Well, I do anyway. You know, someone taking some initiative in a charming, old fashioned, I’ll-be-crushed-if-this-girl-scorns-me, sort of way.
Sheila?
One of my best friends from college was a Croatian named Branko, from Chicago (which is the perfect place for Croatians in the US, by the way – CW’s description is dead-on).
“Bronk” was a big, pudgy gob of suet – but he was just as hilariously direct as your friend, Red; as a result, he was a ladies man like the rest of us could only sit and envy.
Temperamental? Oy. Last I heard of him, he’d flown to Zagreb to join the Croatian Army. Kinda impulsive, he.
First you have lunch with a reader and then coffee with a Croat. Whew, you live dangerously. And I’m jealous.
Michael: and they’re both named John!!
Mitch,
Your entire comment made me laugh. I completely get the picture of Bronk. A “pudgy gob of suet” who is a “ladies man” and is now in the “Croatian Army”. That pretty much says it all!!
Patrick:
Of course the guy gets credit for taking a chance! I always give credit to that. But “credit” doesn’t mean “dialing the digits”. The jury’s still out. Please, give a girl a second to think about it!
Call the Mayor. Sheila’s entertaining johns.
Mayor Bloomberg’s busy enough ripping cigarettes out of people’s hands and making sure no one ever beeps their horn in this fair bustling city.
And allowing Rampant Red Light Runners to flourish in our fair city.
I think it was Hitchens who said that Bloomberg was on “nose-pick patrol” – does anyone know that exact quote? So funny, so bitchy.
I guess I just don’t think on the same wavelength as most, Red. The man can get your address from your phone number (He asked) or perhaps by looking in your bag (He looked). It seemed to me the man was up to no good. As I said, I didn’t have the benefit of body language or expression or even just “being there”. Misunderstanding on my part. Carry on.
What’s your hottest movie? Don’t leave us in the dark.
Sheila – so far, the ending I’ve worked out in my head has fiery but despondent Croation lover committing suicide like Denethor in Retrun of the King, leaving our leading lady, Lucille Hayworth, pregnant and alone. She then flees to Rhode Island with a transvestite, where they raise the child as lesbians while running a Christmas tree farm.
I think it needs work.
Rob:
Well that’s why I didn’t give him my phone number or tell him where I lived.
I guess life seems pretty much like a bleak and grim affair at times, so anyone who comes along who provides a bit of random comedy I feel much gratitude towards them.
I’m no dummy.
But I love comic relief. It’s all too rare.
And hottest movies?
It’s a toss-up between The Big Sleep and Big Easy.
Emily:
LAUGHING OUT LOUD. I want that to be my life!!!
Denethor! Fiery and despondent Croatian lover! Lesbians on a Christmas tree farm.
Laughing.
The exchange you describe is classic. Its the same sort of thing that would happen in one of those old movies you love. Its the opening scene of one of those old movies. Haggard working gal walking through the mean streets of New York, yadda, yadda Youre Bacall, baby! (Oh, how I wish I could conjure up one of those old scenes and present it here in that old eastern American accent that Hepburn used. I can hear it in my head, but it wont come together.)
Im not saying you should call him right now, Sheila. Im glad he gets credit. Most people dont give credit. They think a person approaching them is scary or weird and then they complain that theyre alone. (OK, so maybe Im projecting.)
Patrick:
I stopped reading your comment after the word “haggard”.
I’ll but out now.
Ok, ok, tired working gal.
“Tired” is much better. Okay, I’ll read your comment now.
I love having command over people’s fate, even if they are only imaginary. For the record, you, the trannie and your daughter lived out your lives in Rhode Island happily, with the exception of one minor incident involving militant eco-terrorists.
Dearest: just a cautious note from your father–who syas he’s Croatian, other than that lying sack of bloat. I bet he’s a Macedonian up to no good. He could be a Brit for god’s sake. love, dad
“I bet he’s a Macedonian up to no good.”
Crying with laughter.
Emily – is there such a thing as a “minor” incident involving eco-terrorists?
Strange Hobbies Of Mine
One of my favorite things in the world is using my knowledge of trivia to convince people I’m…something. Psychic in some cases. I was reminded of this by a post on Red’s blog this morning:He said, “So. Where do you…
It was “minor” in the scheme of your life, Sheila. I’m thinking a couple of masked hippies cutting down your crop to protest the fact that you cut down your crop. Because eco-terrorists are usually that stupid.
Sheila’s dad – “He could be a Brit for god’s sake.” I can’t stop laughing. The bitterness that won’t die.
“He was now, obviously, deeply in love with me.”
We all are, red.
It’s early days yet, but have you ever been anywhere near a Croatian wedding? They have a band at the wedding shower. They have like 900 people, or whatever the population of their village was back in the old country, at the rehearsal.
Finally, as the local economy overheats and implodes, we come to the ceremony itself, which is a cross between the Nuremberg Rally, Elessar’s coronation at Cormallen, Bilbo’s eleventy-first birthday party, and the battle of Clontarf…
…hmmm. I was going to say run, do not walk, but actually, it’s pretty cool when you think of it that way.
The killer line IMHO: “…insane moment where you are confronted with someone’s mental illness…”
In case someone hasn’t told you this, Sheila, in the past 5 minutes: You do have a way with words! That’s why we’re all here.
Sheila,
See this link for the Hitchens quotation. http://www.nynewsday.com/news/local/newyork/politics/nyc-fair0106,0,438460,print.story?coll=nyc-topheadlines-left
Bryan – I absolutely love that you just sent me that. I knew I could count on SOMEONE to track it down!!
MikeR:
Grazie. :)
Bud: hahahaha! To me, that is the perfect way to describe handling many of the homeless people here. I handle them with compassion and fear.
Sheila,
Your humble servant, my lady.
My husband and I were having dinner at an Italian restaurant in Greenwich Village in August 2000. I was trying to place our waiters accent and my husband engaged him in a little conversation. After Id listened, I told the waiter, I like to guess at accents and he said I dont think youll guess mine. So I said I believed it was eastern European but not Greek and then I paused and for some reason (I think it was that scene from Casablanca that hit me), I said Bulgarian! and he almost fell over. Fun stuff.
when it comes to accents:
I was in Rapid City, SD once, and met a guy who was a bombardier on a B52 (Rapid City has an air force base nearby).
He had an intense North Jersey accent, like a bit player from “The Sopranos”. I asked “So – you’re from New Jersey?”
“Ah, everyone guesses that. You’ll *never* guess where I’m from!”, the bombardier responded.
“New Orleans”, I said. His jaw dropped. “Nobody has *ever* gotten that”.
Not many people know that the Nawlins and Newark accents have the same roots…
Mitch – you could be a homicide detective – or an investigator – or a profiler … something along those lines.
Or a professor, Sheila!
Ken, if you think that’s a bit much, you should see a Croatian funeral. From the tales that grow in the telling that I’ve heard from my mother, she was in a receiving line for like, days when my grandfather died.
Mitch, I could spot a genuine New Orleans accent a mile away. And a fake one even further.
And Sheila, I think someone must have taught the entire population of Croatia to say “darling” as the default form of address in English. At least I get that sense from Croatian relatives…darling. ;-)
Wierd.
Once, in college, I saw a guy I had never seen before, and the thought “He’s from Europe” just came into my head. I later learned that he was, indeed, from Europe.
I’ve never figured that out. He wasn’t dressed any differently or anything. My best guess is that he WALKED like a European. Apparently, Americans walk subtly different than Europeans.
Anyway…