I nodded.
“And so I say, ‘That’s not the East Village. If you go that way, you’ll run into, like, Sixth and Twelfth.’ Right?” She was talking to us now.
The other woman and I looked out the window toward where she’d pointed, and then we both said, “Yeah, right.”
“‘That is not the East Village.’ And he just looks at me and does this dismissive thing with his hand, as if saying I’m a girl and I don’t know what I’m talking about. He shows me his phone, his fucking phone, and says the phone says that’s the East Village. And it really pissed me off. I mean, I’ve lived here five years—”
“I know what you mean,” I interjected, “you have managed to live here for five years. You have earned the right to give good directions. You don’t need a phone telling you.”
“Exactly. I know how to get to the East Village, and that is not how. I don’t care what your fucking phone says.” She sighed, took a long sip of the fruity drink. “I just had to walk away; I almost wanted to hit him.” Suddenly the taste of the rum punch hit her; I could see the recognition on her face. “Wow, this drink is really strong.”
The other woman and I agreed. We had figured this out a couple sips ago: we were all very quickly getting very buzzed. Then the blonde in the newsboy cap looked at me with a puzzled expression as if it suddenly struck her that she had been talking to me all this time but didn’t know me. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Billy.”
“I’m Liz.”
“I’m a fan of anyone who gives directions,” I added.
She nodded, and smiled mildly. We stood there for a minute not talking. It was really loud. The other woman looked out at the crowd, scoping where to go next; she clearly didn’t want to be standing there talking to two people about the value of good directions, especially since one of them was old enough to be her dad. I couldn’t blame her.
Liz asked how I know the guys who were giving the party.
I said what I’d said to her friend: I like the store, I live in the neighborhood.
“He doesn’t surf,” added the other.
I could have kicked her. What I wanted to say was: A surf shop in Manhattan? For real? It must be a front by some clever guys to pick up cute girls.
Liz asked where I lived exactly and, when I told her, she asked if I’d been impacted by Hurricane Sandy. I told her how I was—no power, water, lights. She said she was similarly affected, but there was not a trace of complaint in her voice. It was like she was now standing up for the storm. I’m not saying she was pro-storm, but let’s say, pro-storm-experience.
The other woman had a look on her face like she didn’t understand a word either of us was saying.
“I mean it, I’m really glad. To go without power or water or heat for a few days? It gave me a feeling for what it’s like for a lot of people every day. Every goddamn day!” She paused to take a sip. “It transformed me. It really did. It transformed me.”
By now, the windows behind us were all fogged up, it was so hot in there and so cold outside. Suddenly she stepped up onto the banquette, and she used her finger as a pen on the fogged-over glass. In cursive letters, she wrote, “Love Liz.”
She did it slowly and carefully; they were the most elaborate capital letter L’s—very fancy, with exaggerated curls, like a young girl might do when practicing writing her autograph in her journal.
As she stood up there, I began thinking about how I happened just to wander in here, by chance, without an invitation, without a thought, but also not without feeling welcomed, and how I had ended up connecting with this spirited blonde woman with improbably nice handwriting. I thought about how few people nowadays really value getting good directions from someone, how they’d sooner believe their phone, and how few of us have really nice handwriting anymore, how this is no longer valued, because we communicate mostly by e-mail and text, and rarely write letters or postcards or in handwriting on fogged-over windows.
I told her how beautiful it was. You could see the lights of the city sparkling through the letters.
Liz stepped down. I gave her my drink to hold. I stepped onto the banquette and, using my finger as a pen on the fogged-over glass, I added my autograph to hers: “& Billy.”
I took my glass back. “Cheers,” I said, and the three of us toasted. “Here’s to knowing your way. Here’s to knowing New York.”
Liz put her head back and finished her drink until the ice in the plastic glass fell into her mouth. She licked her lips. She said she had to get going.
I asked her where.
“That party in the East Village.”
She said I should come but I said thanks, no, not tonight.
I watched her walk out and, as she passed by him, say something to the guy on the sidewalk. I could just imagine.
I slipped out the door and headed the other way.
Sam at His Newsstand
NOTES FROM A JOURNAL