He’s not coming. I’m a laughing stock. NYC road kill. (This wasn’t true. I’m sure the New Yorkers at the bar couldn’t have cared less about me. But I was hypersensitive and projecting due to having been asked on a date, then stood up on said date, in under an hour – a new record!)
Waiting in line at the W Hotel in New York, I was smiling to myself as the desk agent tried to be rude to the sweet little old Japanese man in front of her. He just wasn’t getting it at all. She kept saying “Is there anything else I can do for you?” in an unmistakable “Get out of my life at this instant” tone. He just kept smiling and nodding and saying “thank you.”
As I watched this interchange, I felt the presence of someone standing behind and very near me. I turned, ready to be annoyed by the infringement on my personal space, to find a cute guy in a very New York peacoat and scarf smiling down at me. “That lady’s about to punch that guy in the face,” he commented motioning toward the odd two of them. “Yeah,” I replied smiling, “and I think he knows it. I bet he’s messing with her on purpose. Maybe trying to teach her to be more zen.”
Finally the Japanese man departed the desk and the next customer approached the now very frustrated desk attendant. “I hope I get the other guy,” I remarked. “Now she’s going to give everyone crap rooms with no hot water.” For the rest of our wait Mr. Peacoat and I bantered back and forth about the tiny rooms at the W and the rain showers that are supposed to be the height of sophistication, except that you have to run around in the shower to get wet. (Back me up, girls. Whoever invented the rain shower was bald. I have to use less soap because it takes an ice age to rinse… Look out New York.)
Finally it was my turn. I got the ice queen. Mr. Peacoat got the nice guy. Our transaction was brief. My card key was shoved at me. And I headed for the elevator. As the doors were closing, Mr. Peacoat put his hand between the doors and got on, smiling broadly. “I’m going back down to the bar to have a drink. Want to come and have a drink with me?” he asked.“Sure.” I smiled, “I’ll just go get settled and check my email quick. I’ll meet you at the bar in half an hour.” “Great.” He said as I stepped off the elevator on the 10th floor. “See you there.”
‘What incredible luck!’ I thought, as I checked my watch. 7:10. I quickly checked my email and ignored them all. I unpacked my shirt for the next day. I primped a little. (I thought of the little old Japanese man as I stood on my toes to see in the bathroom mirror that started about 5’5’’ from the floor. Sorry, Mr. Sweet Japanese man, you will see amazing sights here in New York, but you will never see yourself unless you stand on the toilet.) I smoothed my jeans and headed downstairs at 7:30.
I got a beer at the bar ($9 – sheesh!) and found myself a place to stand. The bar was packed with professionals at happy hour. I tried not to feel awkward standing there alone. New Yorkers are not known for being particularly warm. These were living up to the stereotype. They openly sized me up but no one cracked a smile. I buried myself in my iPhone to hide. I looked at Facebook, then Pinterest, then NPR, then Instagram…all the while watching the clock.
7:45 – He’ll be right down.
8:00 – He got caught up, but he’ll be right down.
8:15 – My beer is warm. Where is he?
8:30 – Could he not be coming?? High-boots-short-skirt over there is sneering at me.
8:45 – He’s not coming. I’m a laughing stock. NYC road kill. (There is a good chance this wasn’t true. I’m pretty sure, looking back, that the New Yorkers at the bar, including tall-boots-short-skirt, couldn’t have cared less about me. But I was hyper-sensitive and projecting due to having been asked on a date and then stood up on said date in under an hour – a new record!)
9:00 – I abandoned the dregs of my warm beer and headed toward the elevators. And low and behold, there came Mr. Peacoat, walking toward the front door from the elevator bank. I moved toward his path and he stopped.
“Yeah, I hear ya.” He said. “Excuse me?” I asked, confused. He put his hand in my face. “Okay, man. I’ll catch you later.” He moved his hand from my face to touch the earbud I hadn’t noticed in his ear.
“Hi.” He said, now apparently addressing me. “Do you want to go in?” he motioned to the bar. “Sure.” I replied, thinking he must have an explanation for his incredible lateness and incredible rudeness. He motioned to a bar stool, “I have about five minutes before I have to go to dinner.” “Oh…” I stammered, “Well, I just had a beer while I was waiting.” I was confused and doubly, now triply, insulted. He straightened, “Okay, well, have a great time in New York.” He turned and walked out the front door.
I was frozen in place. Tall-boots-short-skirt shifted uncomfortably next to me and woke me from my stupor. I fled. Speed-walking toward the elevator bank, I was intercepted by Mr. Sweet Japanese Man standing squarely in my path. He beamed a winning smile up into my face and bowed with his hands held in prayer over his heart. My heart filled. “Thank you.” I stuttered. “Thank you,” He echoed, then let his hands fall to his sides and watched as I walked quietly to the elevators.