The New York Times‘ “Metropolitan Diary” usually offers up cute, only-in-the-city tales about taxi drivers, museum guards and — earlier this year — Westporter Catherine Onyemelukwe’s encounter with a Nigerian saleswoman at Bloomingdale’s.
Last week, there was a much different type of story. In the words of former Westporter Rod Serling, it is “submitted for your approval.”
After 15 minutes spent waiting in the rain with a dead phone, Robbie finally found me. We walked back to his place, a two-bedroom Harlem walk-up with a third bed in the main room that was made of plywood and inexplicably stood about 10 feet off the ground. It held a 20-something male whose connection to Robbie or his middle-aged father was never made clear.
“I have to catch the train,” I eventually said, floating on air. “The last one leaves at 1:55.”
We walked to Harlem 125th, without umbrellas. By the time I was on the platform, I was bone-tired, soaking wet and very stoned. So much so, in fact, that I got lost in my thoughts and failed to board the train, even when a door opened inches away from me. I came to just as the train was leaving, and cursed loudly.
I had no choice; I got on a 2:05 train to Stamford, and there found a cab that would make the 30-minute drive to the Westport station, where my car was parked.
Ninety minutes, $75 and one headache later, I pulled into my parents’ driveway. The clock on the kitchen counter read 3:30, half an hour before I was supposed to wake for work. I decided to stay up and wait out the time, sat down on the couch, and promptly passed out until 7:30.
I was fired.