There are many many times in my life here in New York that I often think to myself, why am I here? Why don’t I leave? Why do I put up with all of the crap that we as New Yorkers have to put up with? Let’s face it, to have 9 million people residing in just over 10 square miles is a bit crowded.
I was thinking of this a few months ago during a lunch break from work. I was walking down the street, lost in my own thoughts when a young man approached me.
“Excuse me. You seem like a smart man.” This is actually what he said, I’m not exaggerating. I blame the fair skin and glasses for this remark.
“What do you call a…I mean…what is a…what is it when…” he stammers at me, as if he’s nervous to ask this question. I have two thoughts as he’s saying this; the first being maybe he’s lost and doesn’t know how to properly pronounce Houston, and the second being this guy is distracting me while someone else is one their way to steal my belongings. Being a New Yorker, my assumption is that it’s more the latter than the former, so I look at him, and then walk away.
“No no wait!” he yells, “I really have a question for you.” Well how can I argue with this logic? If he really has a question for me, and he really wants to get my attention, and as I scan the street from end to end and see that there is no one else around but the two of us, I acquiesce. “What would you like to know?”
“What do you call it when a lady farts out of her vagina?”
“No.” I say “You’re done here.” And I walk away, a bit more hurriedly this time as again he either legitimately wants to know this information or this is the last thing I’ll hear before waking up in a bathtub with two scars where my kidneys used to be.
Why am I here? Why don’t I leave? Stories like this invoke thesse questions within my inner monologue. But there’s also one more question that arises that a story like this also begs for: How can I even think of leaving when there’s such an amazing world outside of my door?