Portnoy Walks the Streets of New York

In my estimation, one of the best thing about living in Manhattan--the convenience factor--is also certainly one of the worst. Sure, I live but a short walk from all of my six friends whom I don't secretly despise, but as a twenty-something jew who attended a large, midwestern university who's alumni seem to flock, in droves, to our tiny little island nestled between Jersey and Hell, I also live in dangerously close proximity to thousands upon thousands of people that I despise with every ounce of my very being. That I'm not much of a "people person" doesn't really help much--especially when, god forbid, I'm forced to make one of those dreaded treks through Murray Hill (read: anywhere above 14th Street).

There was a time--hell, my first 7 years in the city were that time--where I made every conscious effort possible to avoid running into people I "know" on the street. Living downtown, it's fairly easy to do so. After all, I don't "know" that many hipsters, Mexicans, and single mothers. So on those rare occassions where I would see someone familiar from a distance, I would do what any good, antisocial New Yorker would do--cross the street, walk the other way, or in a bind, quickly pull out my cell phone and pretend I was talking to someone. But every once in a while, much to my chagrin, I'm forced to venture above 14th Street. And that's when things tend to get difficult. Try growing up in Jersey, going to a Big Ten school, and not knowing everyone (or at least thinking you know everyone, since they all look the same anyway) walking around 3rd Ave between 28th and 34th. Trust me, you won't be able to. In that danger zone, there's not much you can do--short of being extremely unfriendly--to avoid running into former college classmates who you despise--or even worse, who you've seen naked.

Back when many of my friends lived in that godforsaken place known as Murray Hell, I became a virtual expert at hiding myself in plain sight. With sunglasses covering my eyes and the obligatory hooded sweatshirt covering the rest of my face, I was satisfactorily able to camoflauge myself while traversing the alarmly perpendicular and nondescript streets that make up that pointless neighborhood. Now that I look back on those days, I'm not sure whether I was trying to hide myself in attempts to avoid awkward conversations with people I can't stand, or whether I was actually attempting to hide my embarrassment from once having--at least peripherally--been part of that world. In retrospect it's likely more the latter, but these days, it doesn't really matter anymore. You see, now that I'm 28, I'm older and wiser, but even moreso, I just don't give a shit. Gone are the days where I would run into oncoming traffic to avoid talking to [insert generic Jewish first name] [insert generic Jewish last name] from [insert generic, evil town in Long Island] about her new [insert generic Jewish girl from Long Island job]. These days, it just takes too much effort to go out of my way to avoid talking to such people. Like Lou Brown in Major League, I'm just too old to go "jumping into a locker" every time a girl from my past passes me by.

So instead, lately, I've been finding myself smack in the middle of conversations like that which I had just yesterday, as I was walking through Union Square after getting off the subway on my way home from work, because I'm too tired and lazy too avoid them. Yesterday, as I headed up the stairs exiting the subway after work, I noticed a girl that I knew years ago, for a single evening as a sophmore in college, back when I had a beer belly and perpetual hard on for women who "had a pulse." Isn't it truly amazing how much I've grown since then? But unlike the Guy Hollerin of old, who would normally have looked down or run the other way, this time I kept walking straight until we basically ran into each other, and engaged her in a conversation she visibly had no interest in having. Clearly she hasn't experienced the ephiphany I recently had, that awkward conversations can secretly be a load of laughs. Here's what transpired:

Me: "Hey you! [I completely forgot her name. Actually, I'm not sure that I ever knew it]

Girl: (somewhat embarrased) "Hey, how are you?"

Me: "It's been a long time. Since sophmore year, right?"

Girl: (warming up a bit, thinking I'm a nice friendly guy as opposed to the lecherous worm I've since become--err, that I've always been) "Yeah, yeah. Sophmore year."

Me: "So what have you been up to?

Girl" "Oh, I live in Murray Hill now. I'm working in PR for a cosmetics company. You?"

Me: "Oh, you know, I'm just trying to eat. Just trying to put food on my kids' table."

Girl: "You have kids??!!??"

Me: (realizing, as I should have known, that JAP's don't understand sarcasm) "Uh, well, no. Actually, I'm a lawyer."

Girl: "Oh wow, that's great. What type of law do you . . ."

Me: (cutting her off) "Hey, remember that time when you came back to my place after we had just met and you gave me a blowjob? How fun was that?"

(Silence)

(Silence)

Girl: (with a look on her face equal parts shock and disgust) "Uh, good to see you."

(Girl walks away at a brisk pace and doesn't look back. I turn to see if her ass is still a few sizes too big (it is)).

Me: (yelling out at her) "Well, good to see you!! Take care!!!"

Now I know what you're thinking. I'm a horrible person who's going straight to hell. Well, you couldn't be more right, but my fate has nothing to do with my obnoxious tongue. You see, tonight, instead of attending a seder and avoiding bread products, I imbibed some brushetta and pasta in what I hope will be the beginning of my most productive Passover "carbo-load" yet. That I decided to be completely obnoxious to this otherwise innocent girl who I haven't seen for 7 years is merely the redi-whip on the kosher-for-passover strawberry short cake. You see, here's how I look at it. On one hand, I could've done what I always used to do--what everyone else presumably does. I could've just avoided her, pretended I didn't know her, and went on my merry way. But seriously, what fun would that have been? For me, at least, none. So on the other hand, I opted to be friendly. To approach her and talk to her. To let her know that I remembered our night together, even if all I remembered was that she spilled a can of beer on my couch and gave me a very toothy blowjob. Sure, perhaps I was a little bit "too" friendly, but if I weren't, I wouldn't have anything to write about on this here blog, and you, in turn, would have nothing to print out and read during your daily morning trip to the office crapper. So stop being such a sanctimonious little twit and go back to eating your bagel.

By the way--to all the ladies I've "been" with over the years, FYI: should you wish to experience, first hand, the type of flattery the girl I described above had the good fortune to enjoy the other day, I plan to exit the southeast pagoda of the Union Square subway station tomorrow afternoon around 5:45 pm, so take a number and get in line. And if you don't recognize me immediately, just look for the guy with a dog-eared copy of Portnoy's Complaint in his right hand. That'll be me.