ExposedNYC

Just when you’re getting cynical about the world, or in particular the island of Manhattan that most of us consider the center of the world, someone surprises you. I went out to see a fantastic band (tangent- they’re like a folksy Dixie Chicks trio, LOVE THEM!) at The Cutting Room the other night, which turned into a hazy blur of vodka, champagne, and three other bars with my friends.

The next morning I stumbled out of my girlfriend’s apartment and glanced in the mirror, thinking that I had a pseudo-casual dress, a little make up left on from the night before, and enough semblance of a hairstyle to get away with walking to an ATM and into a cab. This is until I got outside and realized I had forgotten the ultimate protective shield- sunglasses.

A few brain piercing moments later I crawled into the back seat of the first cab I could find. After the first three bumpy blocks, I decided it was acceptable to lie down in the back seat and give myself a mental pep talk to avoid losing last night’s quesadillas and shrimp cocktail all over his floor mats.

I made it to my house and up the (endless) stairs before collapsing on the bed for a nap. A few hours later I woke up and reached for my purse for the obligatory reminiscing over the previous night’s highlights…only to discover that my cell phone wasn’t in it. I knew I had made it home with it in tow, because I remembered checking the text outbox that morning at my girlfriends house- quite tame, I might add, since editing a few Contacts names. Unfortunately, now the only way to know if I had left it at her house would be to call her, and being from the generation that views landlines as about as necessary as eight track players, that was clearly out of the question.

So, I settled for my next best option in feeling connected to the world at large and checked my email. As soon as my inbox appeared I saw “CALL YOUR PHONE- the cab driver has it” screaming at me from the subject line. I got nervous, wondering if I had time to shower before heading to the closest pay phone, considering I had left it on vibrate and knew the battery was on its last legs by now. Thankfully, my roommate chose that moment to walk through the door.

I babbled a quick explanation, grabbed the phone, and dialed my number. The cab driver answered and, after some discussion in very broken English, I was pretty sure that I had just agreed to meet on the corner near my apartment. I described what I was wearing (and how many other people were going to be standing around in the nearest warm up pants and ARMY t-shirt within reach), but just to be sure I called again, and breathed a deep sigh of relief as he gave me his cab number.

He pulled up and handed me my phone, leaving me with the parting wisdom that I was “very lucky” because my battery died and he had been driving around charging it and answering every phone call that came in, hoping it was me. I tipped him generously again, thanking the service industry veteran in me that over tips cab drivers in the first place, which I like to think may have had some influence. Then I checked the call log to see who else had the pleasure of talking to him, and who I was sure to be teased by in return. “Tracy, Jodie, Mom Cell…” Oh boy, this will be fun to explain.

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