"My name is Patrick
and I am just out of prison."
The man who has just
entered the carriage of the B train heading Downtown to Brooklyn is standing
six inches away from me. He sounds forceful. Not angry. Just forceful. Like
he's auditioning to play Brian Blessed.
"And I'll tell you
what happens when you leave prison," he booms on.
Now, I am very nervous. Not
just because Patrick is speaking very loudly, but because he is wearing a
rucksack. In my vocabulary, rucksack equals almost certain death, particularly
if in a confined space on public transport and being worn by a man who clearly
has no fear.
I wriggle nervously and
look around to see how everyone else is reacting. As they would in London,
passengers affect nonchalance and roll their eyes. I resist yelling to everyone
to get down, as I once did in Paris, when a motorcyclist entered the bar
pretending to brandish a gun (how everyone laughed at the 'joke' as I gathered
my prostrate body off the floor), and stare at Patrick.
"What happens when you
leave an American prison is you get $40 and one subway ticket, so if any of you
have a ticket you're not going to use, or even a dollar, I'd be very
grateful."
I consider unzipping my bag
to give him a dollar, but do not want to risk Patrick making a grab for my
iPhone, which I have only just retrieved after losing it an hour before I
caught the subway of doom.
At 42nd Street station, I
change carriages. This is the station where, after seeing Aladdin on Wednesday
night, I nearly lost my arm, which would have been considerably more
distressing than losing my iPhone (lesson to self: never try to get off the
subway when the doors are closing). There will always be another iPhone, but
there won't always be another arm.
A lot seems to be happening
on the subway. I came to lose my iPhone this time (it's something of a regular
occurrence) when buying another 7 day ticket from one of the men who sit in
booths trying to be more miserable than any other worker on the planet. Ever.
Late at night, when engineering work is taking place on the tracks, and trains
have to be diverted, these men (and the occasional woman) appear to take
delight in sending you on a wild goose chase to the Bronx, where you are told
that in order to get to 103rd Street, you have to go all the way back to 59th
and start over on a different track.
Last night, after seeing
The Lion King and on the subway home, I was lucky enough to meet Pedro, who
works on the subway. Even he didn't know what was going on with the revised
timetable, but listened carefully to every announcement in order to get me
safely back to 103rd.
I could do with a Pedro in
my life. But then I could do with a man to look after my iPhone, too. And one
to put out the garbage. Anything else would be truly a bonus, and I would
willingly sign up to being a sex slave if just these two small requests could
be met.
Anyway, I have been out and
about exploring today and haven't really changed my opinion from the one I held
about New York when I came here 23 years ago: I don't like it much. I never
thought any place could knock Miami off the top spot of being my least favourite
city in America (actually, San Francisco came pretty close), but I think New
York has managed it.
It really is like London -
and not the nice parts. Just those bits you pass when you're on your way to
Paddington Station in a cab and give thanks that you don't live there.
A friend who loves New York
asked me a couple of days ago: "What's not to like?"
Where do I begin?
The filthy streets, the
noise, the appalling service, the tourists, the misery ingrained on everyone's
faces, the depressing subway, the towering buildings casting a shadow over
everything they survey...
At least I have my iPhone
back. Apple's system tracked it to a Jewish nursing home on 106th street, where
a very nice lady who had found it at the subway ticket booth phoned me back
when I sent a signal to the phone.
Life, for the moment, has
returned to calm. I am in Soho House in West Village and thinking about eating
out tonight for the first time (oh, yes, that's another thing - it's way too
expensive to eat out here).
Let's add that to the list
of requirements I want in a man: one who will pay for everything.
Something tells me that isn't going to be Prison Patrick.
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