The Roach Guy.
So New York is fast.
And I mean really fast. To the point where I come back to my home town of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania and am amazed at how slow everything is. Even though my visits "back home" are always relaxing, there is this recurrent sensation of "how the FUCK did I ever live here?" that hits me increasingly with every visit. In New York, the minutes are faster, the people are faster, and with a thousand pedestrians at every intersection, even the cars are faster. (Mind-boggling, it is, but true. If I had a nickel for every nutso that skids through the cross-streets of Times Square at 90MPH, I'd be making $100K plus full benefits.) In other cities, everywhere is like a Post Office, and the Post Offices are like morgues.
I think the realization of New York's speed hit me the most during a recent stop in a Dunkin' Donuts in downtown Philadelphia. Here I am, fresh off the Chinatown bus and hungry for a breakfast sandwich at 10pm. Where else to go but Dunkin' Donuts? I step inside, having already drawn five dollars from my wallet to notice one guy behind the counter and a line of five people. No problem. I live in New York now. I'm used to lines. Except in New York, lines tend to move. Here, this guy is taking his time asking every single person how they are doing and not moving on with the rest of the sale until the small-talk is completed. Likewise, every guest in line doesn't dare reach into their wallet until after the total cost is announced--as if they didn't know they would soon be paying for their order.
At this point in time, I'm pretty much pacing around in my head. And then I notice I'm actually physically pacing around in the Dunkin' Donuts. (The good thing about stores outside of New York is that there's actually enough breathing room to pace around...just a note for those of you who share my passion for embarassing oneself in well-established fast-food chains.) The real kicker was after I waited just about ever for my turn in line, order my sandwich, and watch as the gentleman walks away from the register towards the microwave on the other side of the room. He's just about to put my sandwich in the microwave when I ask him if it comes with a coffee and--GET THIS--he actually puts the sandwich back down, turns around, LOOKS ME IN THE EYE, and says "Yea, but you can substitute for a drink if you want."
What the FUCK? When I ask you a question, I don't want you to stop what you're doing! I want you to keep working and answer as you work! Please, let's skip the uneccesary drama like trying to be personable via eye contact, and keep things moving! I almost had a panic attack when counting the wasted seconds from such a ridiculous act!
Us New Yorkers aren't rude. No, we just have our own time-efficient kind of politeness which in turn makes us friendlier, more considerate people. I learned this the first time a tourist asked me where Grand Central Station was, and--without so much as glancing their way--pointed my hand right and said "three blocks" while proceeding to cut off a taxicab with my jaywalk through a red light. I then responded to their "thank you" with a backhand wave and a silent "you're welcome" in my head, from what was now the other side of the street. I save time, you save time. We both win.
There is, of course, a downfall when you live in a city faster than the speed of light. Attention spans. There may not be anything more limited than a New Yorker's attention span. Unless of course that New Yorker's attention is going towards something like a book or portable discman. It's important that we pay attention to these things, mainly because they induce a sense of privacy even in the company of a few million salespeople, bums, hustlers, and advertisements that all fight for our attention on our way to the laundromat or grocer right down the block.
In general, the fight for a New Yorker's attention is long and grueling. Even advertisers bend over backwards for our attention. (If I had a nickel for every advertisement I've seen here that began with "Hello, New York!" or "Hello, New Yorkers!," we could add a full vacation and 401K plan to the aforementioned salary and benefits. I've seen advertisments mention everything about a New Yorker's life, including apartment sizes, squished subway commutes, and car rentals just to get to Newark airport, just to introduce something miniscule like a new brand of shampoo or hand lotion. Still these ads could be printed on every taxi billboard and subway car stretching from the World Trade Center up to the farthest reaches of the Bronx, and most natives wouldn't even recall seeing it. That's the beauty of New York.)
I ran into this attention span problem about a week ago at Starbucks. Starbucks owns just about every corner of this city, successfully outnumbering McDonald's before the turn of the millenium and setting up shop everywhere a porn store was closed under the Guiliani administration--meaning, we now have about five Starbucks per block in Midtown. Here I am, in an attempt to be healthy, skipping my usual high-calorie Venti Caramel Machiotto for a Grande Black Tea Lemonade. Stretched out in front of my laptop by the window, peering out into the never-ending activity of Union Square, having enjoyed the wonderful taste of my drink, I pick the cup up, spin it around and look at it. I see the slightly-melted ice, dreaming for the minute where there's just a bit less ice and a bit more water to sip. Then, with a dreamy sigh, I look some more.
"OH MY GOD!"
I screamed. There it is. A cockroach. Inside of the cup. The cup I just drank out of. It's staring right at me. I just drank out of that cup!
"What's wrong?" the lady next to me asks. I show her. She's grossed out slightly then goes back to sipping her drink.
At this point, it's war. I know what they'll do. They'll apologize. They'll give me my money back. They'll probably give me vouchers for future drinks. But that's not enough. In order to get my dignity back, I have to take at least one of their customers away. I have to!
Dashing behind the counter, I belt "EXCUSE ME!" as if I'm on stage, talking to a few thousand attendants seated at Madison Square Garden. "I just had a Black Tea Lemonade and in it I found THIS!," I yelled. Even as I was talking to the workers, I held the glass towards the line of patrons--my newfound target audience--and waved it horizontally as if it were a package on a sliding platform, as to incite ooohs and aaahs. People looked. And they stayed in line. I got nothing.
"Uhm...what's in your glass, sir?"
"A COCKROACH!," I exclaimed, just knowing that some flabberghasted old lady in line is bound to faint of shock and the rest of the customers will trample her on their way out the door.
...but still, I got nothing. On the way back to the customer's side of the counter, I overheard someone say "Hmmm...maybe I'll order my drink without ice."
In Philadelphia, I would've got at least one person to turn around and leave. Even if it was just some little high-school kids looking for anything to joke about, screaming "eeel" and pointing at each other. Or some dirty-looking old woman screaming "Why, I NEVER!" even though everyone looking at her suspects that she probably has roaches crawling out of her purse. Someone would've cared enough to change their plans and walk out the door. Hell, I could even picture someone writing a letter to the Starbucks district manager, voicing what a disturbing sight it was, merely so that they had something to do when they got home. But not in New York. We're just too "we've ween it all" to let something so small as a diseased cockroach in a drink grab our attention.
I admitted defeat, talked to a manager, received my apology, my $5 refund, and five vouchers. Vouchers that the manager brilliantly suggested that I use "at another location." Y'know, cause that other Starbucks a whopping two doors down is just bound to be roach-free.
Two days later, I returned to the same Starbucks and redeemed one of my vouchers for a free Venti Caramel Machiotto. The clerk asked me how I got the voucher. Midway through telling her my story, she screams "Wait, so you're THE guy?! Oh My God! Guys, the Roach Guy is here!"
A crowd of Starbucks workers gather behind the counter to meet the new celebrity in town.
"Look, when you come in, don't even bother using the vouchers. Just tell us you're the Roach Guy. We'll hook you up!"
So after ten months of living in New York, I finally have left an impression. I'm "The Roach Guy." Amazing. After so much hard work, I've finally earned a title I can be proud of. A title that will probably only last a week (or however long it takes for a rat to crawl out of someone's shot of expresso or a pigeon to fly out of someone's chef salad). But alas, I have left an impression. On people. New Yorkers, even! How is that not something to be proud of? Part of me feels accomplished. I just landed on the moon (And even moonmen would seem more down-to-earth than us New Yorkers).
At that moment, I walked away with my drink, opened my laptop, and began writing a note to my truest love:Dear New York:
You're sometimes a little too fast to keep up with. But I love you anyway.
Sincerely,
The Roach Guy