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New York, New York and other cultural myths

My agent, Nancy Ellis, from California, is in New York presenting my second novel. I also learned today that a friend had moved to New York to take over a public relations firm. The combination of these two migrations takes me back through my memories of New York.

A couple of decades ago I was in New York for dinner with the Director of Food and Beverage for a prospective airline client for my airline catering business. I finished dressing early and picked up some sort of “what’s happening in New York” magazine in the room. An article about cozy little bars in New York talked about Chumley’s 86 in Greenwich Village. The writer noted that Chumley’s was called “the bar with no name” because it had no outside sign, a holdover from its speakeasy days. Still with time to spare, I headed downstairs and out onto the sidewalk to “New York Up” so to speak.

Note: There is no time here to philosophize about the New York love/hate syndrome that bothers New Yorkers and out-of-towners alike. I’ve just never bought into all that “if you can do it here, you can do it anywhere” New York stuff.

I walked in on a cool, clear January afternoon in Manhattan. Standing on tiptoe to the sidewalk, I was captivated by a city that shone as gloriously as its postcards. A man like me, standing by the sidewalk in an old-fashioned coat, looking up at the buildings is a beacon for any alert New Yorker. I barely noticed the approach of the armored class limo. Purring quietly, it pulled up to the curb with the driver’s window directly out front.

“Do you need a ride, sir?” asked the driver in dress driver’s uniform.

Under normal circumstances, he would respond with one word, but the enormity of this situation was too much for an outsider. “Well, I didn’t set out to get a limo.” I said with all the poise I could muster.

It will be a pleasure to take you anywhere. The accent was Caribbean, the smile genuine.

“You’re kidding, of course,” I replied, “limos don’t cruise, do they?”

“Of course,” the smile was contagious.

“Most cities require 24-hour notice for a limo to prevent them from competing with taxis.”

“The city likes us to cruise during rush hour; there aren’t enough taxis, you know.” He doubted it was true, but okay.

At which point my guests walked up behind me, “Well, are you ready for a great night, Bill?”

“Sure, get on.” I smiled and gestured toward the limo. They froze in their tracks. It was a superiority of prodigious proportions. The driver was already opening the door to a cavernous luxury rarely afforded to the common taxi driver.

“You are kidding, right?”

“You are welcome.” I smiled. “I would like you to meet my driver…”

“Your driver?

“Of course.”

“Neville. Neville Eat, sir.” Perfect moment when the driver bowed slightly to my guests.

Settled in the luxury of the limo, I caught Neville’s eye in the rearview mirror. “Neville, could you confirm our reservations with Tre Scalini?” He nodded, picked up the phone, and instead called quietly for directions to Tre Scalini.

“Tre Scalini! That’s one of my favorite restaurants,” my guest’s wife exclaimed. He had the questioning look of a man wondering when we’d ever talked about New York’s favorite restaurants.

Getting out of the limo, I fell behind my guests. “Neville, I’m a poor man, how much is this costing me?”

“I’ll tell you what. I’m going on a cruise for a few more rides and I’ll be back around 10:45 to pick you up.” She smiled that big Caribbean smile. “I’ll charge you $125.00 for the whole night.”

“Made.”

After a culinary extravaganza and an expense account debacle, we were once again enjoying the limo life. “Seems early. How about having a drink at Chumley’s 86 in town?” I nodded to Neville, who instantly grabbed the phone, quietly asking for directions.

“Chumley’s 86?” My guest and his wife looked at each other and shrugged.

“Yeah. It’s a cozy little place with a fireplace. Kind of interesting, really. It’s called Bar No Name because they don’t have a street sign, a holdover from their speakeasy days.”

Now they looked at each other with that “how do you know so much about New York?” look.

When we later closed Chumley’s, our table had grown to include my two guests, Neville, three former investment bankers from Boston Young Lions who complained at the next table that there were no girls in New York, and the six lovely young ladies he had invited. join us in proving that there are indeed girls/women in New York.

Did I get the contract? Of course. So what’s so hard about New York?

Epilogue

Neville turned out to be a wonderful person and a homely philosopher of some note. I always looked for it on subsequent trips to New York. On one occasion, I was sitting with Neville and two friends from Texas at the front window table of a small deli. The sidewalk was crowded with people running in both directions.

I pointed at the crowded sidewalk. “Neville, look at all these people. Why don’t they get out of here, go somewhere and find a life?”

He leaned back, looking at the ceiling. “New York is a pretty easy place to be. You can always get something out of someone.” He stopped for a moment. “Actually, New York is like a giant university. People come here and learn things, then they go back to where they came from. But they have to be careful, because New York will get them if they’re not careful.” “

I guess that about sums it up.

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