Lost in Brooklyn

Giving directions has never been one of my strong suits. Every once in a while I'll get them right, and I'll be mighty pleased with myself for some time afterwards. But that doesn't happen often.

This is a little odd, maybe, since Morgan has commented to me more than once how good my sense of direction is in general. At least when we're outside. If we're outside, my bearings are usually right on. Get me inside, though, and I get all discombobulated. Yet no matter how good my sense of direction is outside, if called upon to actually share that sense with a stranger, something almost always gets lost in the translation.

Morgan tells the story of a guy she knew who once gave directions to a driver only to realize after the man drove off that the directions were wrong.

Some time later the same driver passed him again, and yelled out the window, "Thanks a lot, asshole!"

Every time I give directions, I'm convinced that'll happen to me. But I digress.

Monday had been a long day, but I was finally on the F train going home and happy for it. I was seated next to the doors, and when they opened at 14th St., a Japanese girl in her twenties stuck her head inside and asked me how to get to 34th St.

This was a Brooklyn-bound train, which normally wouldn't have done her any good. As it happens, though, right before I'd boarded the train, I heard an announcement that the uptown trains were running on the A line between W. 4th and 34th. At least that's what I thought I heard. So I told the woman to get on the train, take it one stop, and then transfer over to an uptown train.

Then I bent back down over my book

Next time I looked up, the doors were closing at York St. I turned my head and noticed that the woman was still sitting there.

"Uh, ma'am??" She turned. "You missed your stop." She looked at me, but said nothing. "Okay," I said, "so what you need to do now is transfer at the next station and go back-"

"Hey! Lady! You're goin' the wrong way!" shouted a man who'd been standing by the doors for some time. In his satin baseball jacket, Yankees cap and horn-rimmed glasses, he bore a striking resemblance to Norman Gorman, the quintessential loudmouthed New Yorker created by Joe Flaherty. It struck me that, close as he was, he didn't really need to be yelling. (Which was usually also true of Norman Gorman.)

"Ummm," I said, "That what's I've been trying to-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he replied, walking past me to stand in front of the Japanese woman.

"You need to head back into Manhattan, lady-you're heading the wrong way."

I put my head back down, happy to let the knucklehead here handle the situation. But then I heard him tell her "Don't pay any attention to anything this guy says."

That seemed a bit uncalled for, so I squinted up at him again, wondering just what kind of animal I was dealing with here. I was afraid I knew.

"You shouldda told her to get off five stops back!" he shouted at me after catching my stare.

"I'm well aware of that," I said, as calmly as possible. "But given that she didn't get off the train, I figured she could transfer at the next stop."

"But she's goin' the wrong way! She needs to be headed to Manhattan!"

It was clear where this was going, so I shrugged, said "Okay, fine, hell with ya then," and went back to my book.

Throughout it all, the Japanese woman said nothing. The train pulled into Jay St., with Gorman explaining the woman's predicament, and what lousy directions she'd been given, to the rest of the passengers. I continued reading and didn't notice that the woman was still there as the train rolled out of the station.

Then, as the train was leaving Bergen St. a few minutes later, I felt someone touch my arm. I looked up, and it was her. She was starting to look frightened.

"What do I do?" she asked. Her English seemed fine, at least the two phrases I'd heard. But just to play it safe, I tried to explain (again) how to transfer at Carroll St., using ludicrous hand gestures and lots of repetition. Then I stopped.

"Do you understand me at all?" I asked.

She smiled and said nothing.

I asked again.

There was a pause. Then she half nodded, smiled, and said "Understand. Yes."

"Uh-huh. Ahh," I said, not so sure I believed her. "Do you know what to do at the next stop?"

Honestly, I wasn't so interested in getting off the train to show her the way. I was tired. I wanted to get home and open a beer. If it came to it, I'd show her the way at my stop. Same difference.

Suddenly Norman Gorman was among us again, apparently having finished explaining to people what a sad fix this pathetic woman was in.

"C'mon with me, lady," he said with a sweep of his arm. "I'll show ya the way."

He took her hand and jerked her off the train. They walked off in the wrong direction. I lowered the magnifying glass to the book.

I try to do my best. I really do. When it comes to dealing with assholes, I try to give them the benefit of the doubt whenever possible. Maybe that waitress with the attitude was having boyfriend troubles. Maybe the previous customer had yelled at that cashier. Who knows what hellish miseries strangers are dealing with?

But when you get down to it, some people are assholes. No two ways about it, and there's not a damn thing anyone's going to do to change it.