2012 - The Year of the Stranger

So, I was up in New York City the other day. I went up with the lady to check out a show called Accomplice. I call it a "show", but really it was more like a scavenger hunt crossed with a walking tour crossed with interactive theater…scratch that, more like if your life was the Michael Douglas movie, The Game. How it works is you pre-pay online, and are sent a cryptic email containing a street corner to meet on at a specific time, a map, and a registration number. That's all the information you're given, except to bring a copy of your registration and be there promptly. Had I not read so many of the independent reviews, I would've sworn it was a scam.

We woke up early, hurried over to the Bolt Bus (hooray Bolt Bus!), and, next thing we knew, we were standing beside Madison Square Garden.  For a little context, if you've never been up in New York city the week before or after Christmas, it's completely overrun by tourists. I call them Foregrounders, or F.G.s, because they just walk around all day, standing in front of things, taking pictures. We drifted from one corner to the next, catching successive waves, trying not to swim against the current, and about 30 minutes later we washed up in the desolate-by-comparison West Village.

"There it is," I said, and pointed across at an ordinary-looking corner, beside a park.

"You think those people are waiting for the show, too?"

It's subtle, but I think there's a difference between people who are waiting for something specific, like a bus, or a friend, and people who are just waiting. This group was the latter, the confused sort. We managed some awkward introductions (our group had four people from London, and and a couple from Jersey)…and waited.

Precisely at 3 PM, a woman holding a clipboard emerged very suddenly from the greater sea of strangers. I won't spoil the show (which I would definitely recommend seeing) but, more or less, for the next three hours we were given clues and sent around the West Village, trying to solve a mystery. Every place we went, we waited for the next character to turn up and continue the story, only they were dressed like ordinary people - a street sweeper, a bartender, etc - so we could never be quite sure who was in on it and who was just a regular stranger. That was the coolest part, by far. Suddenly, I was aware of them, people, strangers, all around me. I hadn't had that feeling since the original Spaces journey. I realize that sounds like a bad feeling, but actually it's good. For at least one more afternoon, I was sensitized again to the astonishing, real-life, ever-meshing network of humans.

So, here's a little mini-resolution for you: next time you go out into a public space - a farmer's market, a city street, a park, wherever - just take a second - just one - to look around and realize how many people you don't know. The point is not to be afraid or overwhelmed…but the opposite, to recognize how rare it is to actually know someone; how exciting it is that the person you're supposed to meet (a new friend, perhaps) is out there, like Where's Waldo, only he's not wearing his candy cane sweater, he's undercover, so you'll just have to keep your eyes out and be ready.


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Semi-related story…



A few weeks back, in response to the "Who was your first crush?" memory exercise, I wrote the post below, which you may not have seen since it was mixed up with all the other comments. A few days after posting it, I happened to bump into her (for the first time in a decade) in an art store in Philly.

Back in my day (and it wasn't that long ago), when you liked a girl, you had to call her and ask her out. Call her HOUSE, I mean, which meant you had to play who-will-answer-the-phone roulette.

The first girl I remember calling was named Kristen. I was in 5th grade. I don't remember why exactly I liked her, though I wish I did. Did she smell nice? Did she help me open my mini-cardboard carton of chocolate milk at lunch (those things were a bitch)? Did she draw me a crayon picture (she did grow up to be an amazing artist)? I have no idea. All I remember is that I liked her - I was aware of liking her, and the social obligations that implied. I had to call her and ask her out.

Calling a girl's house was the equivalent of getting your head stuck in the schoolbus window (the kind with the stubborn plastic springs you had to push in simultaneously from both sides) and then driving that school bus over a series of huge speed bumps.

The first part of the process involved retrieving the "school phone book" which was a thin wire-bound volume that listed all your classmate's names, their parent's names, and their addresses. It made for good reading, all year round, because you could find out whose parents were divorced and who's weren't.

So I flipped to the N's. Nash. Nemic. Nev-----. Back then you didn't have to dial the area code, so it was just seven digits. I actually remember her number to this day, though I won't publish it here. 896...



The reason I remember it is probably because the second part of the process, after locating the school phone book, was to dial the first six digits and hang up. You did this about 90,000 times, which was good practice for hanging up when you actually DID call and someone answered. 



The odds for who would answer were roughly:


2-1 - Her mother
4-1 - A sibling

8-1 - A grandparent
10-1 - Her father

750,000-1 - The girl herself



So I dialed. Phones back then were push button and attached to the wall. 



"Hello?"

(Hang up.)



"Hello?"

(Hang up.)

"HELLO? WHO THE HELL IS THIS?"



"Um, hello, this is Matt, can I please speak to Kristen, sir, please?"

"Yeah. Hold up."

I'd gotten her older brother. I don't know when people stopped saying "Hold up" but it reminds me of a different , better era. 



"Hello?"



"Hi, Kristen."



"Hello?"



"Hi, Kristen, this is Matt."



"Who?"

"Matt Smith, from school."



"Oh hey Matt."

"Hey."

"What's up?"



"Um, do you know what the Language Arts homework was? I forgot my assignment book."

"Hold up, let me check."

(Hours upon hours of waiting.)



"We have to read the first chapter of Where the Red Fern Grows."



"Is that it."



"Yeah. That's all I wrote."



"Okay."



"Okay."



"Okay."



(I bang the phone into my head.)



"Is everything okay?"



"Yeah sorry, I just dropped the phone."



(Across the room, my mother looks up from doing the dishes and frowns, as if to say, "Just do it you little pansy.")



"Hey Kristen, do you want to meet me up at Elwell (the local park)?"



"Sure. When?"



"Ten minutes?"



"Okay."



"Okay."



"Okay."



(Mother frowns as if to say "Hang up the phone you idiot.")



That day at the park was my first kiss. It's kind of silly to wish this process upon a generation who will never have to endure it - who can just call a 10-year-old girl's cell phone directly, or text her. But I find myself wishing that rite of passage never went away, that it was a permanent feature of childhood, like those school bus windows.

The weekly wisdom and memory exercises will be back soon, by popular demand. Happy New Year!