It's a tough town, kid

Well, my rooster story brought about such an entertaining set of comments from you all, I've been trying to think of other topics that would encourage more such sharing of amusing anecdotes. I was coming up empty until the other day, at the nail salon, when I was reminded of one of my favorite genres: New York City wisecracks. There are eight million stories in the naked city, and I bet a good seven million of them involve snappy, snarky comebacks. Life in New York - piled on top of each other as we are - can involve a lot of day-to-day conflict, especially the verbal kind; the upside is that a not-so-pleasant encounter can provide the opportunity for one of life's more satisfying accomplishments: coming up with a perfect witty response that psychically destroys your opponent. (Of course, the response must be conceived of and deployed on the spot, rather than later that night, when you're brushing your teeth and still fuming over That Jerk, and I Can't Believe He Said That, and Man I Should've Let Him Have It.)

I've already shared with you one of my more pleasing encounters in this vein, but believe me: I've got a million of 'em. For instance, a few years ago, I'm waiting in a subway that's been idling in the station for a good few minutes (god only knows why, but probably something to do with the ever-mysterious "train traffic ahead," an "explanation" that only comes over the intercom on a train that I waited ten minutes for in the first place, so I know there's no train traffic ahead, buddy, don't try that line on me.... But that's a different tirade, for another time). So anyway, the train is sitting there, doors open, and I'm standing in the doorway, trying to concentrate on my New Yorker and not start fuming about the friggin' delay, when I hear a guy tearing down the stairs, calling out, "Hold the door! Hold the door!"

I have opinions on holding the door, whether it's the subway, or an elevator, or whatever, which can basically be summed up as, "Why should we all be delayed just so you can squeeze on?" So I keep reading my magazine, even though I'm standing in the doorway closest to the staircase, and before the guy can make it onto the train, the bell rings and the doors shut right in his face. I can feel him glaring at me, so I just keep my head down and wait for the train to pull away.

Instead, the doors pop back open (probably because someone in another car was holding the damn door), and the guy steps in next to me. The doors shut, the train starts up, and the guy stands there, glaring and glaring and glaring at me, while I continue to stare at my magazine. If this were a cartoon, I'd be nervously whistling.

Then he says, "Yo, why didn't you hold the doors?"

I pretend to ignore him, though I can feel my face getting a little hot.

"Yo, why didn't you hold the doors?" Now he's leaning right into me, and people are glancing over, so I have to say something. I give him a look and, in a Brooklyn-inspired smart-alecky tone of voice, say, "I don't speak English." I then return my attention to my (English-language) New Yorker, while his mind totally short-circuits and the guy next to me snickers. La la la.

Then there's yesterday, in my favorite nail place (open 24 hours a day! 365 days a year! yay, New York!). I get myself all comfy in the pedicure throne and dive into The New Yorker (my standard NYC reading material, as you've no doubt surmised) while Ivana (per her name tag, though I wonder if this is the name on her Korean birth certificate - but no matter) goes to town on my feet. After a minute, I become aware of the two women sitting a couple thrones down...

{A warning: as with my snobby post about the hordes of tourists at the Louvre, this anecdote involves my intolerance of and hostility toward the tourist genus, this time toward a certain type of all-American tourist one often finds in New York. Sorry if it offends, but in the spirit of sharing all my innermost thoughts and feelings and dreams with you, Dear Reader, here goes.}

...Back to the salon. The women are clearly a mother/daughter team, wearing the classic "I'm not from here" outfit of the summertime tourist: baggy tee shirt, casual way-too-short shorts, big white sneakers, white socks (this is not the beach, people! this is New York! dress accordingly!). The mother is enjoying herself by rather aggressively chatting up every employee in the joint - any time one of the salon gals walks by, the mother is all, "Why hello! What a cute shirt! You don't smile enough! You have such a pretty smile!" I stick my nose more deeply into my magazine and try not to be overly judgmental.

But then, she went Too Far. One of my pet peeves (yes, another one) is that people who don't live in places like New York and Los Angeles (the two spots where I've spent my adult life) seem to think it's perfectly okay to complain about these cities to the people who live there, as if this isn't deeply insulting and shockingly rude. I'm not sure if this is a case of protesting too much out of insecurity and low self-esteem, or just the kind of smug superiority that some non-urban people seem to feel, as if it's somehow admirable to not be able to make it in the big city.

Anyway, one of the salon gals makes a little joke with the mother about her in-your-face chattiness. The mother, delighted to be so encouraged, says, "Oh, I'm always just as friendly as friendly could be! Not like the people here. We're from Erie, Pennsylvania, and in Erie, people say please and thank you, and we smile and say hello when we pass someone on the street."

I can't hold back. I turn to her and say (again with the Brooklyn-inspired inflection), "Well, I'm from New York, and in New York, we don't make random rude comments about other people's hometowns."

Of course, that's completely not true, as New Yorkers are always making disparaging comments about Anyplace That Isn't New York, but that's beside the point. The woman kept her trap shut for the rest of her pedicure, and I returned to my magazine, just so delighted with myself.

I would like to point out that if people in places like Erie, Pennsylvania, were so damn sweet and friendly, all the misfit toys growing up in such towns wouldn't feel the need to flee to places like New York as soon as they could afford the bus fare.

I would also like to point out that I didn't say the first thing that popped into my mind, which wasn't quite so clever, but would have been much more satisfying: "Honey, if you don't like it, get the F out. You won't be missed."



Jungle Red, darling.

{top: poster from the 1974 "The Taking of Pelham One Two Three"; bottom: Rosalind Russell (apparently a cousin of mine!) in "The Women"}