MANHATTAN – I had been forewarned and wary of the rudeness of New Yorkers clear back to 1983 when as a high school senior I saw Terms of Endearment. In particular, that Nebraska supermarket scene where Debra Winger struggles to come up with enough cash to cover the cost of groceries. The checkout girl ridicules her. John Lithgow comes to her financial rescue, but not before admonishing the store employee: “You’re a very rude young woman.” The checkout girl replies, “I don’t think I was treating her badly.” Lithgow responds, “Then you must be from New York.”
Lithgow’s line drew a collective laugh from my fellow Midwestern cinemagoers. What he said merely reinforced what we already knew: TV shows, motion pictures, and news stories almost always painted NYC as a metropolis muddled with maniacs, murder, mayhem, and genuine unmannerliness. Despite its iconic “I (Heart) New York” slogan and logo created in the late ‘70s, the city still seemed to be the butt of jokes, a big bad apple filled with nothing but worminess all the way to its crooked core.
In 2018, 34 years after Terms of Endearment, I finally visited NYC, fully expecting to face the rudeness of its people, the worst of the worst.
Scott was very surprised at how small the Statue of Liberty is in person. (Photo provided)
I didn’t have to wait long for its discourtesies.
On day one a total stranger intentionally violated my personal space. I was about to cross a busy street by Union Square Park when some scoundrel gruffly yanked my shirt from behind, pulling me safely back to the curb before I unwittingly stepped into the path of an oncoming taxi. I turned to offer a thank-you, but my rescuer had disappeared into the crowd. The person’s anonymity frustrated me. I’m from the Midwest. I have a never-ending need to say thank you. How dare this total stranger disallow me the satisfaction of issuing a sincere thank-you for saving my life. New Yorkers are so rude.
On day two, a similar thing happened. I stepped outside The Ginger Man pub on 36th Street and had almost reached Madison Avenue when someone from behind hollered for my attention. “Sir!” I walked faster. I did not look back. Nothing good can come from an encounter with a stranger on the streets of NYC. The grifter shouted once more. “Sir, I believe you dropped your hotel key on the sidewalk.” I realized then that my coat pocket was void of my hotel room’s key fob. I turned, saw a man pointing down at the sidewalk just outside The Ginger Man’s entrance. By the time I jogged half a block to retrieve my key, the good Samaritan had crossed 5th Avenue, burdening me with another batch of Midwestern guilt associated with yet another unexpressed thank-you. The suppressed thank-you was nothing but a lump in my throat. I almost choked on the two trapped syllables. Gotham-ites are so impolite.
On day three, I was about to cross at a very busy Broadway and Bleecker when someone poked my right shoulder with a foreboding forefinger.
“Sorry, man, I didn’t mean to scare you,” the poker, twice my size, said. He stared down at me with a look of wild-eyed urban desperation. This unplanned pause caused me to miss my chance to escape across Bleecker during a break in traffic flow. We were momentarily alone. He smiled a smile that seemed painful.
“Brother, do you have some money you could give me? I just need a little something to eat.” He looked dangerous, like a Scorsese antagonist. I replied, “Man, I can’t. I spent my cash.” I had been warned many times not to give in to these guys. Then, as if I owed more detail, I foolishly added, “I just carry credit cards.” Finally, as if to prove I could say something even more stupid, I added, “You know how it is.” He smelled like rotten fish.
“Yea, man,” he nodded and then he stared high and away, as if to calm an inner boil. His smile vanished. His voice hardened. “OK man. I’ll admit it to you. I’m just couple days out of prison. OK. Look. I killed my brother for raping my sister. You’d do the same.” His voice grew angrier, either due to his perceived affliction of injustice or my lack of a handout.
I stared at the pedestrian signal, wishing for an invitation to walk away.
“How about some change then?” he asked. “I got by on 16 cents a day at Attica. I just got out, you know. 16 years.”
“I’m sorry, man, I can’t.”
“I was in the military.” He gave me a desperate, unconvincing salute.
“I have no money to give,” I said.
Pedestrians swarmed around us. I was relieved to have witnesses.
The man still talked to me over two sock-capped heads suddenly separating us. “It’s just … ah, man … I lost my wallet, you know …”
The pedestrian signal switched to my favor. I stepped to the street and walked away. Remaining at the corner, the man hollered, “God bless you.”
I felt my wallet in my coat pocket and guiltily recalled the minimal currency still inside. I decided it would be too much work to move against crosswalk current and return to the man. Besides, can you believe the nerve of that guy to make me feel so guilty? New Yorkers are so rude.
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