It Only Takes Three Stops To Know Someone

There are only three stops between the LES (Lower East Side) and 14th Street, where I’m currently residing. Over the last six weeks, in the chaotic, fashionista, sometimes gay, sometimes unfriendly city of New York, I’ve had several of what I call the “three stop conversations” with a few women.
This involves me saying: (a) a quick hello (b) asking how long they’ve been waiting for the train.
The question is usually serious, and I have no ulterior motives. But the commonality with my “three stop convos” is that the women are always cute. Tonight I met a cute girl of ambiguous ethnicity named Hannah.
She had a quick wit, clear bronze skin, and said she taught English as a second language for a living. I had just returned from a terrible Karaoke session.
For those who don’t know, I’m a Karaoke junkie. Karaoke for me, is like heroin for Nikki Stix in his heyday in the 80’s.

Well… not really. Karaoke night at a bar called Piano’s is my Monday night outlet. I go there not to immerse myself in a Bon Jovi song, or let go of myself through performance. I go there to escape. I watch people dancing, singing and enjoying themselves as they pretend to be the Beastie Boys, Alice Cooper or Lil’ John. Most of the time I sit near the bar, sipping on a glass of water, and follow the flashing strobe lights with lazy eyes. I always put no less than two songs into the mix, but I always hear one picked. I don’t think the DJ dislikes me, but Daddy Yankee’s “Gasolina” is always a better Karaoke crowd pick than say… “Angel” by Shaggy.

So this is where I’m coming from. A slow Karaoke night, where for the sixth week in a row I sit, watching people. The song I performed was “I’m Blue” by Eiffel 65. After performing that song, I realize I’m getting older. EVERYBODY knew this song by heart in 1997, or 1998, whenever the song was an international hit. It was only today that I realize that was oh just…. TEN YEARS AGO.

So after sitting around idly on my stool, I decided to leave. I was hoping that a song I wanted, “Faith” by Limp Bizkit would be played, but alas it was not to be. Socially defeated by New York for what seemed like the millionth time, I headed home. I’ve been cock-blocked, phone-blocked, coke-blocked and now Karaoke-blocked.

At the train station is where I met Hannah. She was cute; about five foot four, with what seemed like Latino or Italian features, but she said she was neither. I was too tired to try and figure it out. She had golden skin, a nose that suggested a background not completely Caucasian, but I’m no anthropologist. “I like being racially ambiguous.” She said with a nice smile.

I gave her a weak smile in return. I could tell that she had a nice personality. She had a quick wit, used the “F” word with no reservation (but in perfect context) and seemed genuinely interested that I was a writer. Usually when I tell people I’m a writer, they immediately say “who do you work for?”. This time, when I said I was a writer, she replied with two raised eyebrows. It felt good, even for a moment.

Then I realized, I’m on the train with her. Earlier on the subway platform, seconds after asking her about how long she had been waiting on the train, I heard the rattle of the F train approaching. This created a situation. From the Lower East Side (2nd Avenue) stop to 14th St took no more than four minutes on average. If the train operator was hemorrhaging coffee, this could be three minutes.

In 1.5 minutes, I found out her name was Hannah. By minute three she was asking me:” What’s your name again?”. I didn’t mind. I can’t count the number of situations like this I’ve been in. I took a risk.
“I’ve had a few of these ‘three stop’ conversations before.” I told her. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
She looked on me with surprise and said no. (Actually every question I asked her seemed to warrant a sort of incredulous (though slightly muted) response).
I told her I don’t normally ask girls if they have a boyfriend. This is very true. Half the time, girls I meet have boyfriends and are extremely shady about it. Since I had 45 seconds left to talk to miss Hannah, I said why not cut to the chase. The train started to slow, and I saw ugly white tiles and columns flashing past through the train windows.

14th Street.

“So do you want to hang out sometime?” I said. Between minutes two and three and I said she was “interesting” a few times, played a slight game or two, and found out that she was a world traveler. Unfortunately, I didn’t get enough time to tell her that I travel a bit myself (though at some point earlier in the night I helped two Roaming Italians try and find a nice bar). At this point I handed her my card.
No one ever e-mails me when I give them my card. But you never know. Maybe Hannah will break the mold, maybe she’ll hop off the train and say, “Hrm, maybe I should acknowledge my curiosity regarding this tall, interesting writer fellow I had ‘three stop’ conversation on the train with.”

But that never happens. What happens is I go home, go to sleep and wake up. At some point the next day, I might remember Hannah, I might not. Its not that the meeting wasn’t important or meaningful (she WAS cute). But I’ve been in this situation dozens of times.

Dozens.

After a while you get desensitized to the nature of quick socializing, or even lengthy ones. If people don’t call you back, no feeling is there. If you meet the cute girl at the train station and nothing happens, you don’t feel that sense of regret you did ten years ago. You wake up, go to work and forget about it.

Being an adult is essentially being a zombie; its acknowledging the most base of your human emotions, compressed into the fragile paradigm of what we call reality.
However, I could be totally wrong. Hannah could shoot me an e-mail and shatter my newly developed outlook forever. Some random message in my inbox could prove to me that the odds aren’t always against me.

Sadly, I’m not a soothsayer. But I know the outcome. I’ll never get an e-mail from her. She, like dozens of women before her, will have my card somewhere in a purse, under a book or a bed, or safely ensconced in the confines of a garbage can near their residence. Then I, somewhere, will go to sleep, wake up, and go to work.