Things I can’t Explain (2 page)

I do have actual friends here in Manhattan. Like my old friend from Thomas Tupper High back home, model-perfect BFF Jody Dicippio. Then there's my childhood pen pal Piper Henderson (who knew that a juvenile pen pal could become a real bud?), and hard-core New York native Penny Rodgers. I mean, Rodgers. God, she'd smack me upside the head if she heard me call her Penny.

At one point last fall I had more of Piper's clothes in my closet than my own. I am not afraid to call Rodgers at three a.m. (I have) or to borrow Jody's Apocalips lipstick (currently in my bag). I like to think that we are an equal-opportunity mix of personalities, career choices, and cup sizes, which is precisely why I love them. These are my girls. My peeps.

Still, you can't underestimate the importance of those New York City relationships of the micro kind. They give NYC a face. The little relationships we all have are the ones that keep you from simply giving up and dropping into an open manhole on purpose. Here is a sampling of my vast, ever-evolving inventory of micro-relationships.

MY MICRO-RELATIONSHIPS

The Grumpy M15 Bus Driver. Despite his ever-present scowl, he always gives me extra time to find a seat before he puts the pedal to the metal. This courteous gesture protects me from the dreaded “bus lurch,” which occurs when the articulated bendy bus hiccups out from under you before you're seated and causes you to land uninvited on the lap of some businessman, or (worse) to spill your coffee.

The Pakistani Newsstand Guy. This fast-talking guy makes a point to say hello, even on windy days when his inventory is being blown uptown in a tiny
New York Times–
and
New York Post
–fueled microburst tornado.

The Lady Power Walker in the Chartreuse Jogging Bra. I see her when I jog the bridle paths in Central Park. We pass each other every Sunday morning and exchange the ever-popular “incline your head and keep moving” quasi-greeting. I know she'd be there for me if I ever got caught in a mugging.

The Voluptuous Latina Nanny. I see her from time to time at the fountain in Washington Square Park. She pushes a double stroller that is more spacious than my apartment. No matter how loudly her charges are screaming and how far they throw their sippy cups, she always has a beautiful smile and an “hola” for me that brightens my life.

And last but definitely not least:

The Cute Coffee Guy. On my second visit to his cart long ago when I worked at the newspaper, I christened him with his nickname, and when I mentioned him to Jody, she abbreviated it to CCG. This is typical Jody. She talks so fast she only has time for abbreviations and half words. “Whatevs” is her fave, for examp. Rodgers and I have to create a full-on glossary on occasion to follow what she's saying. But sometimes her shortcuts say it all.

Ah, my CCG. I used to see him multiple times a day while I was interning for Hugh Hamilton, famed columnist, muckraker, and Pulitzer Prize–winning reporter at the
Daily Post
, because Hugh was a coffee addict. The guy had more caffeine than blood in his veins. If he could have walked around attached to an IV bag filled with Green Mountain blend, he would have. Hugh's hands were so jittery that for the first three months of my internship I thought he was actually trying to say something in sign language. Still, CCG and I never really conversed beyond small talk. In fact, once he memorized Hugh's beverage of choice and mine, too (which I thought was very micro-sweet of him), I didn't even have to place an order anymore. He saw me coming.

I've grown so used to referring to him as CCG that even though I've continued to patronize his establishment on a daily basis following my premature retirement from the newspaper biz, I still don't know his actual name.

That's because, among the many complicated criteria for a micro-relationship, there is the primary imperative that neither party knows the other's name. Ever. Under any circumstances. If a person had to learn and remember the name of every one of her micro-acquaintances, her head would explode. But it mostly has to do with emotional investment. The minute you know someone's name, you venture out of the micro-zone into a whole new scary level of intimacy.

If you actually knew the name of everyone you encountered, wouldn't you be obligated to say hello every time you saw him or her? That would require more memory space and oxygen than any New Yorker could realistically afford. And if you forgot, which is inevitable, the repercussions could be enormous.

Anonymity is salvation in New York. Speaking for anonymous people everywhere, I know that if
I
stopped to consider that every one of those zillions of faces I pass on the street has a complete backstory featuring dysfunctional families, overdue library books, foot fetishes, nut allergies, and so on, I'd be overwhelmed with wonder, joy, disgust, and dread. And that's just on the three-block walk from my apartment to the South Street Seaport.

All I really need is the occasional welcoming face to nod back at me in mutual recognition of our respective humanity. In my mind I make up shortcut names like “Falafel Dude” and “Cop Who Ate Too Many Krispy Kremes” and “Jimmy Choos for Every Day of the Week Lady,” and I'm good.

But the truth is that my micro-affair with CCG is a bit more important than the others. He holds a special place in my heart and I always feel a little less alone and a little more positive when I see him.

The subway regurgitates me a block from the old
Daily Post
building and I make my way to my former place of employment.

I shuffle through the glass wedge of the revolving door and as it spits me out into the tiled lobby, I'm struck with abject panic.

Although it's just as busy as always—the lobby seems emptier.

The invigorating aroma of roasted beans wafts heavily through the air, piercing the foggy midafternoon with the smooth, rich scent of Colombian ground as usual.

And yes, the coffee cart is there, thankfully.

But CCG—my most significant micro-other—is … nowhere to be seen.

 

CHAPTER
2

Okay, he was here yesterday. I know because I was going to tell him I really liked the Sex Pistols song that was playing on his vintage mini boombox, but since that felt outside the realm of micro-appropriate chitchat, I resisted.

I take in the familiar gleam of the stainless-steel carafes and the espresso machine that look like something Jules Verne might use to travel to the center of the earth. I once heard CCG telling the customer in front of me that he cobbled it together himself using parts from a bunch of obsolete Italian espresso makers. He called it “Frankensteam,” which I thought was mocha clever.

I glance at the stacks of beige cardboard cups emblazoned with the little establishment's name:
WHERE HAVE YOU BEAN ALL MY LIFE?
I think as I always do that the name is too long. My alternative shorter, simpler name is “Where Have You Bean?” which is what I think it should be called. I repeatedly say it to myself like a prayer or like someone with a compulsive disorder because the only question going through my mind is, “Where the hell are you
now
?”

CCG is MIA and there is a ridiculously skinny girl with a fluffy white-blond bob haircut dispensing java in his place.

What happened? Did he get a job at another coffee cart elsewhere in town? Did he return home for a family crisis? Does he even have a family? And why didn't I ever ask him? Why did I have to be so damn faithful to the rules of micro-interaction? If I'd taken the time to investigate I might have a clue as to where he is and why he's gone and why I have to be ordering my coffee from a macro-stranger with dandelion fluff for hair.

I approach the cart at a march, determined to get answers.

She looks up at me, smiling through her orange lipstick. “Coffee, tea, decaf, espresso, or latte?”

“Where's CCG?” I blurt mindlessly.

“Um…” She fiddles with her wispy white bangs, which have snagged on her eyebrow ring. “I'm not sure. Is CCG that marketing company on the fourth floor, or is it the modeling agency on the twenty-fifth?” she replies with airhead innocence. And as she smiles at me, she reveals a metal stud the size of a garbanzo bean lodged in the center of her tongue.

Okay, first of all: ouch.

And second of all: I understand piercing is a rite of passage, a celebration of survival, and a sexual turn-on for some, but I have enough trouble keeping track of my earring backs. What if you lose the one to your tongue stud? Can you say “choking hazard”? But none of that is important right now, is it?

“The guy who usually works here,” I explain to Fluffy, my new default barista, to whom I have taken an immediate dislike. “Is he around?”

“Oh, him.” Fluffy bobs her bob. “Yeah, he's here. He just stepped away to make a phone call. I'm filling in.”

I let out a sigh of relief so great I scatter a stack of unbleached paper napkins. The girl looks at me funny, so by way of explanation I fib: “He owes me money.”