(What interested me about this entry, and the reason I'm posting it, is how amazingly free our lives were the first year we lived in New York City. With Reilly, our lives are so different--but no less amazing.)
One of the topics that Shawn and I have conversed on lately is that of the people who hand out flyers on the streets of The City. They all have various techniques, and some are more successful than others. These men and women (and children too) hand out flyers offering a variety of products, from clothing sales to bands that are playing. Some we see every day, like the girl who hands out pink slips of paper in front of her father’s jewelry store (at least, that is the story we’ve built around her).
There are many different colors and shapes of the flyers; most are either plain white or some fluorescent color, like pink or yellow. There are also many different techniques for handing out a flyer. Some people are timid and just turn out their wrist from their sides, while the people on the other end of the spectrum fully extend their arms and snap their wrists at you. Some stand still, some dance, some walk with you. The occasional person will approach you, tell you what the flyer offers, and then hand you one. Establishing this rapport is successful, but not time efficient. So, after careful study, I have devised the ultimate way to hand out a flyer. Flyer hander-outers take notice:
1) Though neon is more visible, I hate it. Especially fluorescent pink. I think most people will agree. So, screw the visibility—use white paper with black type, card stock. People will be less inclined to throw away a classy piece of white card stock than a cheap, thin piece of eye burning yellow paper.
2) Full arm extension, with a wrist snap. The paper should make a rustling noise, which will draw a person’s attention to the article.
3) Eye contact, when possible. This is the most time effective way to build a rapport.
4) Speaking of which, 99% of the people who we encounter handing out flyers, do NOT tell you what is on the flyer. So, the final, and critical rule here is to cry your wares, 19th century style. If people know what you’re offering, they’ll take a flyer.
Now, maybe these people don’t cry their wares because they’re selling pig ears. Or maybe they’re getting paid by the hour, and don’t really want to give away their flyers, because then they’d be out of work. That’s what I’m doing now, after all—writing in my journal when I should be working, trying to fill time because yesterday I almost finished what it was supposed to take me two full days to do.
After lunch Shawn and I (we are both temping at MoMA, but in different departments) got coffee at Au Croissant, an awesome cafeteria-style café with dirt-cheap goods. For example, our café au lait is $1.05, and no, it is not a thimble full of coffee. There are croissants, cookies, and all kinds of pastries for less than $2. The reason they keep their prices so cheap is because the place does brisk business at all hours. Now, other than the unusually cheap prices, there is another point of interest about the place. Though it is labeled as a French Café, the cooks are Asian and the cashiers say “Gracias” after you place your order. Very international. Very New York.
Since my job ended at 1pm, I read in Rockefeller Plaza for several hours, at one point interrupted from my studies by a black man crowing. Yes, imagine the sound the bird makes and put it in this man’s mouth, turn up the volume and set it on repeat. He even wore three feathers on the front of his ball cap. Everyone hated him. This was my second experience with The Crow, and though he is noteworthy, and decidedly a New Yorker, I didn’t much care for him either. Had he not he not crowed to draw attention to himself, no one would have noticed him. Perhaps that is why he did it. Well.
After Shawn got off work we decided to walk to the Met (Metropolitan Museum) for a drink at the rooftop garden. The walk to the museum was beautiful, up 5th Ave., along the east side of the park, tree-lined, cool breeze, cloudless sky—distinctly pre-fall. But before we even reached the park we saw a foot-traffic stopping sight on 5th Ave. I would have missed it if the two gay guys in front of me hadn’t stopped to gawk. In the two storefront windows on either side of the entrance were two bathtubs with two towel-clad models pseudo-bathing. I looked at the left, a young lady washing her arm, while the gay guys looked to the right, a handsome fella scrubbing his back. I don’t know what they were selling, but they certainly were getting the attention they wanted, as a crowd was gathering. After getting an eyeful, we walked on to the Met.
The view from the rooftop was incredible, the trees of Central Park so green and blanketing the activity beneath—all framed by the New York City skyline on three sides. After our drink, we strolled away feeling refreshed and relaxed, and took the 6 Train to Astor Place.
There we ate dinner at a Hawaiian joint called Marion's. Shawn liked it for the name, of course, (that's her middle name) but the food was very good and the martini’s cheap.
After dinner we finished our evening at the home base, Liam was working the bar, and working hard, as he was by himself on a Friday night (this makes my analogy from an entry ago more relevant than I had intended). We sat and watched him work; we talked, debated, and people watched. We talked quite a bit with Deanna, a girl who was helping out Liam and who also designed the website for the Keltic Lounge. She took a quote from us to add, “The BEST jukebox in The Entire City!” (It’s true.) We also chatted with two underage girls from Israel, who were going on a tour of the US. I tried to talk politics with them, but they were rather dull. I expected more converstion and personality from world travelers. Maybe they were just shy.
We walked home arm in arm, very merry.
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