It was a section called Fort Green I had never been to before.
I’m always amazed how many people don’t know their neighborhoods. You ask them where a street is and they look drunk at 8 o’clock in the morning.
“But you live here…it’s a main street.”
“Yeah, I know…I dunno.”
After asking my seventh person who starts saying I’m going in the wrong direction, I hear a crackly voice behind me.
“No she ain’t…she’s goin right…she just needs to make a left…just in a half hour is all.”
A half hour.
I turn around and there’s man in a ripped Yankees jacket and pajama bottoms with his private parts jangling out like car keys.
There was no time to be appalled…I WAS LATE.
He then points, like an Irish Setter, and says,”Yous goin right, but it’s a laaaang, laaaang ways?”
How is it, a half naked man is the only one who knows where Queen of All Saints Church is, an apparent landmark?
“Tell me again, so I can write it down.”
I started rummaging for a pen.
“I got one,” he says, handing me a Bic that’s been significantly bitten.
In a very competent way he tells me step by step, how to go.
I thank him praying he was right, and by golly, he was.
But what occurred to me later when I had calmed down enough to go over what had happened…how oblivious I truly was to his balls blowing in the breeze.
I was late, that’s all I knew, and his porn-like ensemble made very little difference to me.
I’m a New Yorker alright.
Live and let live, act as if, and get me to the church on time.