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<\/i> 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<\/i> may have been rushing down 8th Avenue, but my mind and soul was elsewhere.<\/p>\n
I approached the deli where I always get my coffee.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
As I passed by, I heard him say, in an accent, “Hello, darling.”<\/p>\n
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.”<\/p>\n
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<\/i> 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.”<\/p>\n
“Hello, John. I’m Sheila.”<\/p>\n
“Where are you from? Ireland?”<\/p>\n
“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.)<\/p>\n
“I see you every day,” he said.<\/p>\n
“Excuse me?”<\/p>\n
“You walk by me every day and I always want to talk to you but you are always in a hurry.”<\/p>\n
“Well … I’m going to work.”<\/p>\n
“You have to take 5 minutes right now and talk to me. Just 5 minutes.”<\/p>\n
“Uh … okayyy…”<\/p>\n
“Why is that so weird? I like you. I would like to talk to you.”<\/p>\n
“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.”<\/p>\n
“I wanted a coffee!!” But he said it in a jokey way, to let me know he knew that he was full of shite.<\/p>\n
He said, “So. Where do you think I’m from?”<\/p>\n
Now this is where it gets really funny, if you think about it.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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<\/i>.<\/p>\n
Now – that morning, of course, after waking up from the sweaty nightmares, I had read my daily chapter of Black Lamb and Grey Falcon<\/i> by Rebecca West. So – I don’t know – I got a very strong Balkan vibe from the guy.<\/p>\n
So I guessed. Randomly. “Croatia?”<\/p>\n
He put his coffee down with a look of utter shock. Obviously, I had hit the jackpot.<\/p>\n
I started to laugh again. “Wow, that’s so weird. I don’t know. You seem very Balkan-ish to me or something.”<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
“It was a wild guess.”<\/p>\n
“You are obviously Irish, my darling.”<\/p>\n
(He called me “my darling”. It was 9 a.m., on 8th Avenue.)<\/p>\n
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 …”<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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?”<\/p>\n
“Uh … 40?”<\/p>\n
He started to laugh. I was obviously way off. So I went in the other direction. “50?”<\/p>\n
He was very offended. He was OBVIOUSLY not 50. But I could not guess his age as easily as I guessed his Croatian roots.<\/p>\n
I said, “I have no idea. You’re obviously not 50.”<\/p>\n
“I am 34.”<\/p>\n
The man does not look 34.<\/p>\n
I said, “You are NOT 34.”<\/p>\n
Then he showed me his drivers license<\/i>.<\/p>\n
“Okay, then. You’re 34. Please forgive me.”<\/p>\n
“How old are you?”<\/p>\n
“I will not tell you that.”<\/p>\n
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.”<\/p>\n
“I don’t give out my phone number.”<\/p>\n
“Then take my phone number.”<\/p>\n
Now I was late for work. “Don’t you have a card or something?” I asked.<\/p>\n
“It’s back at my office. No – don’t you have a pen? Write it down.”<\/p>\n
Believe it or not, I looked in my bag and I did not have a pen<\/i>. 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.<\/p>\n
He took my eyeliner out of my bag, and wrote down his # on a scrap of paper.<\/p>\n
“Okay, then – I have to go now.” I said.<\/p>\n
“Please call me. Any time. We can have lunch. I just want to talk with you. I see you every day. Okay? Okay?”<\/p>\n
“Okay, John. Bye!”<\/p>\n
And then I was off. Chuckling to myself as I headed towards my building.<\/p>\n
So that’s what just happened.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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 … Continue reading