It was an early 2000s Friday summer night. Reservoir Dogs was playing on loop. I was armed with my favorite side-boob tank, too much eyeliner, and a freshly tattooed clavicle that read hopeless romantic in French (it was only later I’d learn the translation was closer to desperate romantic which somehow seemed even more fitting.) C’est la vie.
Of course my ex boyfriend would be there. Of course his current girlfriend, who was also his former best friend, would be there too. The last words I shouted at him were something sweet like, “I hope you overdose in a ditch.” And I had meant them.
“Real nice, Sudana.”
“Hurry up and die, Edison.”
Six months later, he had in fact not died. The fucking prick had the nerve to live, and thrive in my part of the city.
“How’s your hand, kid?”
“It’s fine. All healed, thanks for asking.”
The hand he was referring to was my left, which I had sliced up pretty nicely smashing a dvd copy of Half-Baked over my knee. I’d be damned if some other girl was going to lay in his bed watching the movie I bought him, laughing at the same jokes I had. So I broke it. The Johnny Cash poster I had carefully framed and nailed up on his wall had to go too.
Throughout the evening I ordered drink after drink, cracked joke after joke with the bartenders. “Does anyone even like Reservoir Dogs?” Periodically Edison would walk over to check on and lecture me. All he would get back is a middle finger in response. His offers to take me home I would have none of. The streets of New York I trusted. Him, not so much.
I grabbed my Marc Jacob’s bag, chugged the last of my Jack & coke, and stumbled on towards the nearest station. Easily enough as the F train was but a few blocks away, it’s always but a few blocks away if you’re in the Lower East Side.
The next clear memory I have is waking up in the laundry room of a luxury apartment building in Queens. Which was concerning since I have never lived in Queens. In fact, home was in the opposite direction. I took a minute to assess my surroundings, noticed I no longer had my purse (which meant no phone or wallet), and slowly walked out onto the street. The neon orange glare of the train station up the block shone some light on why and how I might have ended up there. With no money and certainly no brain cells left to navigate the NYC subway system all over again, I hailed a yellow cab.
Now if you’re thinking this girl who can’t afford train fare is batshit crazy for hopping into a cab and expecting it to drive 45 minutes to her home, for free, you’d be absolutely right.
Eduardo, poor soul, pulled up. At this point I had literally nothing to lose so I laid my entire shitty night on him.
“Eduardo, my dude, I was at this bar getting wildly drunk because my trashbag of an ex was there so naturally I must have blacked out and taken the train into Queens and man, I don’t even live anywhere near Queens. Can you drive me back to Brooklyn? You can?Fucking great. Just one thing Eddy… I lost my purse. Honest to whatever gods you and I believe in. I have no way to pay you. Not a dollar...”
Now Eduardo here would have been well in his right mind to have a hearty laugh and throw me out of his car. This was some high grade NYC fuckery I was throwing at him. The balls on this girl, right?
I must have been the luckiest bitch this side of the Brooklyn Bridge. I landed into the backseat of possibly the only yellow cab who’d take a ride into another borough for free, because yes Eduardo started the car and without further questions, drove me home. Maybe I reminded him of a train wreck he once dated, maybe he just took pity on the girl who’s story was too insane to be made up, or maybe he was just a nice guy who didn’t want my terrible evening (which was all my fault, I know) to get worse. Whatever his reasons were, I was too stunned, exhausted, and full of relief to ask.
I begged him to take my number so I could repay him for his courtesy and the ride, but he refused. His final words to me were “get home safe” and thanks to him I did.
My stroke of undeserving luck would continue into the next morning. The landlord of the building I had accidentally stumbled into found my precious purse, wholly intact, in a staircase. He called my mother from my phone and offered to drop off my belongings that afternoon. In NYC this almost never happens, you lose something valuable you just accept that it now belongs to the streets, communal property. Aside from now having to answer my mothers barrage of questions (no mom, in fact I do not know what I was doing there), I was saved by the kindness of not one but two strangers.
There is a lot of discourse about men vs bears on the internet lately. Now I’ve had my fair share of loser ex boyfriends in my short life. Also a lot of Eduardo’s willing to give a hopeless (desperate) romantic a ride home. So, at the risk of offending any bears, I think I’ll take my chances with the men.
We need more hopeful stories like this.
Sudana, I really enjoyed reading that. I'm a Texan, but I used to spend a lot of time in NYC for business and my oldest daughter lives/works there now. I'm no angel with a halo, but I was brought up to be a gentleman. As you said, you were lucky, but I have to tell you that we are out there. Men who care, men who have manors and respect women. Good men, that know what it really means to be a man. Men that fail sometimes, like all of us do, but try very hard to do the right thing and do the honorable thing, in a jaded world that just doesn't seem give a flying ---- about those traits anymore. This statement you made, "There is a lot of discourse about men vs bears on the internet lately. Now I’ve had my fair share of loser ex boyfriends in my short life. Also, a lot of Eduardo’s willing to give a hopeless (desperate) romantic a ride home. So, at the risk of offending any bears, I think I’ll take my chances with the men." - that comment just made my day. We're out there Sudana, sometimes it seems our numbers are shrinking but we're still there. I know I sound old fashioned and out of date, but I really don't care. Anyway, I wish you nothing but good luck and I hope you meet, or have met, somebody you deserve. Somebody that will treat you right. - Jim