1 Good Encounter, 2 Bad Ones
My goal is to focus on the positive!
On Friday I decided to do no work and, instead, take the bus into Manhattan to see a matinee performance by Yefim Bronfman and the New York Philharmonic at Lincoln Center’s David Geffen Hall. (Bronfman, who I have now seen four times, absolutely rules, and I secured a ticket that was under $100, in a prime location.) I’ll get into the specifics of the concert in a later missive, first I must tell you about my day.
I had it all planned. I’d get into the city around noon, walk from the Port Authority Bus Terminal to Food Gallery 32 — the (relatively new) Asian food court on 32nd St and 5th Avenue — and go directly to the back right corner of the first floor and visit Noona Noodles. There I would get their Kimchi Ramen, a sensational spicy elixir that I adore. (It is exhilarating to carry the enormous, hotter-than-enriched-uranium bowl up to the second floor seating area aware that any jostling will lead to a third degree burn.)
But it was freezing on Friday. Truly cold. So when I got to town I realized I would have to take the subway, even though that’s $3.00 (what gives, Zohran?) for just one stop. When I got to the Times Square station I inadvertently got on the wrong train. I was on the downtown 1 instead of the downtown N/R/W. Maybe I was dazed by seeing all the ads for the forthcoming Brett Ratner documentary Melania. (Not kidding.)
Usually this wouldn’t be that big of a deal — a mistake that sets you one avenue west. But it was REALLY cold, so that nixed my plans. I exited at 34th St and kinda wandered around Penn Station, grumbling about my mistake. Should I walk it anyway and face the elements? As I stomped around I found myself in that new-ish underground corridor that connects Penn Station to its sleek cousin, Moynihan Station. A railway perineum, if you will. Suddenly I was staring at a Raising Cane’s Chicken — an establishment I’d heard a great deal about, but had never been to.
I entered a PACKED Raising Cane’s, wondering what to order. The truth was that I wasn’t that hungry, and if I got too much rich and heavy and salty fried chicken I might start belching during the Schumann Concerto in A. I saw there was a “three finger box” that everyone else was ordering — three chicken fingers with crinkle cut fries, Texas toast, and a drink. That seemed like a lot.
“Say, do you have, maybe, a two finger box?” I asked. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
By the time I made it to the front of the line I felt like I had just won some kind of contest. Despite being underground with no windows, everyone working at the Raising Cane’s was a ray of sunshine. Behind the counter (and romping around the dining area, cleaning up) were a dozen or so of the merriest New York theater kids I’d ever seen. And I do mean kids — I know that as you get older everyone looks older, but these truly were high school aged teens.
“Raising Cane’s!!!” they periodically shouted, with unforced exuberance. It was beyond pleasant.
Anyway, when I told the kid I wasn’t that hungry, he suggested I get the kids’ meal. And why not? It was two chicken fingers (or tenders, or whatever they were), a smaller collection of crinkle cut fries and a small cup of milk. What an idea! I asked if I could have a Diet Pepsi instead of milk he said this was no problem. He added he’d give me an adult size at no extra charge. And this was all done with smiles!
The bag was festooned with little illustrated dogs and rainbows, and I also got a pack of stickers. It was the greatest lunch of all time.
Also: the chicken at Raising Cane’s is very moist and not-too-salty and, importantly, not that heavy. I could have had three pieces after all.
I bring this to your attention not just because I’d rather dwell on this than actually do the work that’s waiting for me (boooooooo-ring) but because my next two encounters were pretty rotten!
When I got up to David Geffen Hall I hit the restroom, where I heard a man on the toilet moaning in torment. Clearly elderly, this fella in there was stricken, or so I believed, with dreadful constipation, trying to pass a block of cement, and was encounter great difficulty. He was straining and wailing — not sighing, not gasping, these were full-on howls of anguish. I was genuinely concerned that he was about to have a heart attack right there on the can, just a few strides away from Gustav Mahler’s notes on Beethoven’s Third Symphony (thankfully) under glass.
As one comes up from the lobby at Geffen Hall there’s usually a greeter with an earpiece. I decided to approach him and ask if there was a medic in the building. There was. I told him, sotto voce, that a gentleman was having great difficulty in the rest room. He looked at me like I was crazy. I said, in blunt terms, that there was someone clearly in extreme pain, and maybe the house doc should go in an do a wellness check on everyone in the stalls. No response. I said “there’s a greater than zero chance an old man is about to have a coronary while dropping anchor in there,” and I pointed down the hall. He said he’d send someone.
Anyhow, I felt like I’d done my civic duty and headed into the theater, holding the paper ticket I’d printed out, because why have a printer if you don’t print out tickets? The young person at the entryway giving out programs asked “do you know where you are seated?”
What I said back, when typed out, may seem a little obnoxious. I said “Eh, it’s written right here…” gesturing to the ticket. What I meant, and what the tone of my voice clearly implied, was “don’t worry about it, I’ll be okay, I don’t want to bother you, you can help the next customer.”
The person fired back “it was a Yes or No question, it’s not that difficult! Jesus!”
Now… if what I had said to this person came with a haughty “hey, dumbass, my seat is written right here” tone, or even a Seinfeld-esque “oh, I think I can find Row E on my own,” then, sure I can see that that might trigger someone. But it really wasn’t my vibe at all. All I wanted to express was “please don’t do any extra work on my behalf.”
But this individual took my remark in a weird way, freaked out, and I was left made to feel like a schmuck. I didn’t say anything back. All I know is I wished I were back at Raising Cane’s, where the young people aren’t quite so easily agitated.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. At the Port Authority Bus Terminal (after another $3.00 subway because it was so freaking cold) I zipped to my usual gate and jumped on the waiting bus. Looking at the PDF of the schedule on my phone, I was unsure if I was on the 4:20 or the 4:21. Though just a minute apart, one goes express, and this would impact when my caring spouse should come get me. So after I sat, I craned my neck around and asked “hiya, is this the 4:20 or the 4:21?”
No response.
Okay, maybe he didn’t hear me. I repeated myself, adding a “hello?” up front. He barked back “4:25.”
Trying to be friendly (and also doing my best to look at the tiny numbers on my phone) I simply named the stop I wanted to go to, and he said “I stop there,” clearly annoyed that I didn’t have every contour of the bus system memorized. Mind you, the joys of New Jersey Transit is that nothing, absolutely nothing, is printed anywhere and there is no signage, and even if there were, things are always fluctuating. I have learned that you really need to double-check before you go anywhere. Usually asking is not an issue.
Anyway, a man then came up to the bus and called out a question. Again, no response. The guy just walked away and, I suppose, asked someone else.
A third person came up and asked “does this stop at Old Bridge?” No response. She asked again “Old Bridge? Park and Ride?” By this point, I knew that the bus did not stop there, because I was studying the grid. And certainly this ding-dong driver knew that, too. But he didn’t want to answer her. Instead he said “what zone are you?”
Now, no one ever talks about zones on the bus. They talk about locations. He was on a power trip, and clearly enjoyed making this woman open her app to see what the blinking zone number was. “Zone 9,” she eventually said, and he told her to go to a different gate.
In conclusion, this man was a dick.
I’m building to something here. When it was my time to get off the bus I went to push the STOP button as I always do, and it didn’t work. (The seat belt didn’t work either, I had to switch seats.) So I called out “can you please stop near the [REDACTED LANDMARK]?” He grouchily replied “I thought you wanted [REDACTED ROAD]!” Of course, said landmark is at said road, so I don’t know what the guy’s deal was. All I know is that if I didn’t say anything he would have used that as an excuse not to stop. I know this in my bones.
This guy was such a meanie that I didn’t want to look him in the eye and say “thank you” as I exited — as I always do with every other driver. As such, as I prepared to exit, I raced off in a distracted cloud because the guy was such a jerk.
As such, I was so flustered I ended up leaving my Kindle on the bus. That thing cost $100, plus I added an awesome cover with toucans on it. Look:
This is particularly annoying because I am in the middle of a group reading project of Don Quixote and I specifically chose to do this on a Kindle because the book is over 900 pages and I don’t want to lug it around. I am totally screwed now.
Anyway, this summarizes my adventure. What a mess! The cheapest Kindle is around $110. Please consider becoming a paid subscriber to HOFFSTACK so I can buy a new one. I do not have a lot of stray cash lying around currently. I also take Venmo.
Loved this piece. The contrast between Raising Cane's theater kids radiating sunshine and the sour bus driver hits so perfectly. It's wild how one interaction can completley color an entire day, and I've had that exact same thing happen where someone's hostility makes me so scattered I forget stuff. Those unforced-exuberance vibes at fast food places are rare but when they happen it's kind of magical.