Day 3 cont'd., cont'd.
Within ten minutes, we were through the Lincoln Tunnel, explosion free, and pulled into the Port Authority Terminal. The blur of the city began, and we made our way to the subway station, getting deterred for a good five minutes by a guy trying to unload Improv Club tickets on us, a young man who wouldn't take no for an answer, though we managed to decline his incredible offer nonetheless, eventually. Lesson one: Learned. Ignore the comedy guys.
We were approached by no less than ten of these people while in Times Square. My declinations became less and less polite, so much so that the last one I remember encountering was visibly pissed off at whatever it was that I said to him, and stared after us menacingly. I awoke in the hospital.
Not really- but, with any luck, that guy became severely disillusioned with shilling comedy tickets and re-examined (or possibly, just plain examined) his life, and quit a job that would never offer an "in" into the stand-up comedy business, and promptly quit after our encounter. I don't distinctly remember the extent of our repartee, but it was something to the effect of, "Hey guys! Do you like stand-up come-"
"NO!", laughingly, jovially, like him.
In the subway station, Rebecca bought our one day "Funpasses" with her credit card. We were impressed- no- we were perplexed that the machine instructed the purchaser to "dip" the card to pay for the tickets. We searched the machine for some sort of credit card pool or flea bath to drop the card into, but to no avail. The only place to put the card was your average, everyday credit card slot. There was no "dipping" involved. You insert the card, and then quickly remove it. No dip.
A dip, to me, anyway, implies a quick drop and quick removal of an object, and usually the removal finds the dipped object covered in some substance not previously found on said item. We began to refer to everything as a dip, and I told her I was going to dip (excerpt missing here- oops! -ed.). Then, I dipped my hand into my pocket to retrieve my newly acquired subway ticket and we boarded the train and went uptown to see some shit, to wander aimlessly, to find the building my audition was to be at, and aimlessly wander. And look at shit.
We went to 67th and Columbus to find the ABC building that the audition was to be held, and there it was- just like the mystical email foretold. There were still about three hours left before the audition, so we continued down 67th Street to Central Park West and walked into a surprisingly serene and empty Central Park. We attempted to self-photograph some pictures of us in front of the grey, cloudy skyline with little success. Eventually, an old couple strolled by and offered to take the picture for us. I clenched my own bag a bit tighter as I handed the old lady the camera, just in case I had to bludgeon them if they tried to run, er, hobble off with the camera.
As I backed up to the fence to pose with Rebecca, I imagined the old couple as Rebecca and I from the future, coming back in time to help a young us- some sort of strange Auster scenario. After all, we were in his hometown.
We wandered around until we decided to find a place to expell urine. We walked up Central Park West towards 72nd Street, and while Rebecca talked to her mother on her cell phone, I noticed a particularly clever homeless man wearing a yamukah, pushing a shopping cart with a haggard partner. They stopped at a bench where an obviously successful Jewish businessman sat (he also wore a yamukah). I didn't hear their conversation, but it was clear that the homeless man was playing the religion/race card with the businessman, and whether or not the homeless man was Jewish was of little import.
I saw the businessman shoot the homeless man a disapproving, yet guilty look as he pulled a quarter out of his pocket and begrudgingly handed it over, holding onto and looking at the quarter a bit too long. So, I suppose the homeless man had won, but if the stereotypes about Jews and their money are true, the homeless man had seemingly carved a niche for himself that clearly wouldn't be too profitable. I suppose he would occasionally hit the guilt jackpot with some of the more self-loathsome, successful ones, if, in fact, the stereotypes pasted on Jewish culture are true, which I don't necessarily agree with, except that I know Mark is cheap as fuck. And he's one of 'em. Nonetheless, I found the homeless man's angle quite genius and enterprising. Maybe he was genuine after all.
We made our way to a Starbucks back on the corner of 67th and Columbus where I could piss without having to purchase anything. I took the opportunity to marvel at the cleanliness of the restroom and piss all over the floor.