ride from hell

I haven’t seen Zelia in weeks, so when she suggests having dinner before the play we are seeing tonight (Neil LaBute’s new play, Reasons to be Happy) I say yes.  We agree to meet at 6:15 at Westville, my favorite little restaurant in the West Village.

I think it’d be nice to walk around downtown a bit, so I plan to leave around five for a trip that should take no more than 45 minutes.  But two things delay my leaving. 

First, I find my American Express card that I thought I’d lost.  All day I look for it.  Pockets of every coat I could possibly have worn in the past three days.  My small wallet.  Jeans' pockets.  All my purses.  Under my bed.  On the floor.  Alexander even looks in his wallet.   Then I check all the same places again.  Nada.  I finally call Amex to order a replacement card, same number. “I’m sure it’s in the house somewhere and not stolen,” I tell them. As I’m leaving, I find it.  Not hidden under a sofa cushion, or stuck under a rug.  No, I find it in my tiny wallet that I swear I checked several times before.  So I call Amex and tell them.  

Next, I walk outside. Between leaving my apartment and going down two flights of stairs, it has started raining.  I return to my apartment and get my raincoat.

It is now 5:30.  Still, that should not be a problem.

I take the crosstown bus to the #1 train.  I get a seat on a very crowded train, then hear the announcement.  “Due to signal problems, all downtown trains on the #1 line are delayed.”  Miraculously, I am able to get a wifi connection and text Zelia.  We sit for fifteen minutes and then finally leave the station.  Two stops later and we are delayed again.  I switch over to the C train that will also take me to where I’m going.  But I fail to switch my thinking to the new stop.  The C train stops at West 4^th, NOT Christopher St. where the #1 train stops.  As the train begins to head further and further south, and I see stops like Chambers and Fulton St., I realize I’ve made a mistake.  Fellow passengers try to be helpful but direct me to the wrong place.  And now, I have no cell service. Zelia is always on time.  It’s 6:45 and I’m near Wall Street.  Miles from where I should be.

I get off the train, switch back to an uptown C.  I finally arrive at the restaurant at 7:10.  The play is at 8.  Zelia has ordered for me and my food arrives a few minutes after I do.

I feel like I’m in that 1985 movie, After Hours, where a guy can’t make it home from Soho.  Our relaxing dinner is anything but, though it is still nice.  The play is not typical LaBute.  It is kinder, nicer.  I liked it better when LaBute wrote with a nasty, biting edge and a killer twist at the end.  Zelia leaves at intermission.  I stay.  Getting home takes thirty minutes.