Dom’s band brought in such a crowd at Madden’s the night before that they got invited to play again the next night. Instead of following and going to the same bar for the same party a second night in a row, I got in touch with my buddy Dave who I had stayed with in London in the past. We agreed to meet up in SoHo and go out for dinner and a few drinks. I told Dom I’d meet him back at his house later that night – he said he’d wait up and make sure I got back alright.
I took the tube from Dom’s house to Piccadilly Circus and met Dave in front of the giant McDonalds. From there, we went to one of his favorites, Waxy O'Connells and over a beer or two we talked about his upcoming graduation and career options – among other things. That is, until he got a text message.
“So uhh – I was talking to this girl earlier to see if she was free tonight… and she said she wasn’t – but she just texted me and said her plans changed and she’s free – mind if she joins us?”
And so we became three.
This was Sunday, the night before real Saint Patrick’s Day. I met him right around 10pm and asked him what time the tube would stop running, so I could make sure I’d get home okay. He said it should close around 12:30 or 1 a.m. Good enough for me. Plenty of time.
Dave’s lady friend meets up with us and he suggested we head to a bar named “Ain’t Nothin but Blues Bar.” Live music every night – fancy people and expensive beer – sounds like a plan!
Despite the £4 pints, the place was really, really cool. It was a small venue but packed – even from the back we were no more than fifteen feet from the band. People were dancing and partying – wearing silly Guinness hats for Saint Patrick’s Day – the singer proclaimed that Saint Patrick was the patron saint of cheap beer – it was a blast. I stayed until their set was over and then decided I needed to get going so I wouldn’t miss the tube.
I stepped outside and looked around. We’d been to a bunch of different places before there, and I didn’t really have my bearings. There were a few taxis waiting outside. One of them waved me over.
“Where you trying to get to?”
“Woodside Park… how do I get to the nearest tube?”
“Tube’s closed, mate,” he says. I look at my watch.
“It’s only 11:30!”
“It’s a Sunday – tomorrow’s a holiday. Tube’s closed.”
I look at him blankly.
“You said you need to get to Woodside Park?”
“Yup.”
“That’s far mate, real far. I can give you a ride there for £200,” he offers.
For the record, this converts to $400 US dollars.
“That’s very nice of you – I have £7 in my pocket. Will that do?”
“Okay okay – I can do it for £150.”
Everyone likes trying to rob the Americans.
“That’s still very nice of you… I have £7 in my pocket…”
“£125?” he tries.
“Look man, I’m not bluffing. I’ve got £7 in my pocket – is that going to get me home or what?”
“Nah man. £125.”
“There a bus stop nearby?”
He points me in the direction of darkness – basically keep going straight and hang a left at the homeless person.
I figured at this point I wasn’t going to be home by the 12:30am I had told Dom. I pull out my phone and dial his number.
“We’re sorry – you have insufficient funds to place this call.”
My heart sinks.
I enter the code into my phone to see how much funds I DO have. £0.11: there is a God. This is EXACTLY enough to send one text message. Outgoing calls and texts cost – incoming everything is free.
“Dom – call me. I’m out of credit – kind of lost - and the tube is closed.”
I pop my phone back in my pocket.
The cab driver might have been trying to screw me over and pay off his mortgage on one sucker-American, but he gave good directions in the face of defeat. I got to the bus stop and wait for a few minutes, alone, before a bus pulled up.
“Will this get me to Woodside Park?” I ask the driver.
“No man – no that’s REAL far away!” he says, laughing.
“Yeah… yeah I know… do you know how I can get there?”
“Yeah man… take this to Trafalgar Square – get off there and take the N20 all the way up to Woodside Park.”
I swipe my travel card – and so far the only thing that hasn’t gone wrong on this expedition is that there’s plenty of money on it for me to get home – and even get lost on the way there.
Still no call from Dom.
Trafalgar Square is two stops up. I get off my bus on the east side of the square and see an N20 departing from the west side. I walk over and check the schedule. The bus leaves every half hour – good enough. London’s transportation has a helpful feature where they tell you exactly how long it’ll take to get from one destination to another. Trafalgar Square to Woodside Park? It says 2 hours. I have a half hour to kill – and I realize that there is something I need to do before that 2-hour bus ride starts… I’ve gotta pee!
I start wandering around Trafalgar Square in front of the National Portrait Gallery and realize this isn’t going to be easy… security is everywhere. But – security work here – and if they have to patrol all night – they’ve got to pee SOMEWHERE, right?
“Hey man – there a toilet around here?” I ask one of the guys in a yellow jacket.
“Uhh – well, you could climb up on one of the lion statues and try and make it into the fountain,” he said.
“Uh… any other ideas?” I ask, laughing nervously.
“Not a thrill seeker – eh? Well…” he said, leaning in closer, “if you go down that little alley way there are some nice dark corners…”
“Are you serious?” I ask.
“Look mate – you ain’t been in London if you haven’t peed on the Portrait Gallery,” he said. One of his colleagues hears this and starts laughing 10 feet away.
I followed his directions – his instructions – and sure enough there WERE plenty of dark corners. Mission accomplished!
As I headed back to the bus stop, the guard who had been circling the fountain sees me walking by and shouts “Hey! Yeah? Yeah? Everything cool now?”
I nod my head, shoot him a thumbs up and say, “Thanks, mate!”
I check my phone again – still no call from Dom.
The bus finally pulls up. I tell the driver where I’m trying to get. He confirms that this bus WILL get me there and it WILL take exactly two hours. I ask if he can give me a heads up when we arrive – he agrees. I didn’t really believe that he WOULD, but after he made sure I got where I was going – I found that if you ask a bus driver ANYWHERE in Europe to let you know when you’re “there,” wherever that is, they’ll help you.
Two stops past Trafalgar, Neil Diamond’s voice comes booming out of my cell phone – chanting the anthem of Red Sox Nation – finally: Dom is calling.
I tell him the situation.
“The night bus is a blast, mate! You’ll make friends with someone and the two hours will fly by,” he tells me.
And so it was. Two stops later, at Tottenham Court Road Station, on steps a really cute girl who comes over and asks “anyone sitting here?”
“No, go right ahead,” I tell her. She looks at my UEA hoodie.
“What’s an American in a UEA hoodie doing going to North-North London at this hour?”
Ladies and Gentlemen, meet Katie.
Katie is getting a Bachelors of Fine Arts in Theater from a university in London. She’s done a bunch of stage theater but is more interested in television. She also does vocal performance but tells me she doesn’t think she can make a career at it. My art-high-school dork alarm starts blaring. I’ve made a friend.
I very modestly brag about a few of my art-school accomplishments, such as singing at the Tempe Music Festival on the same day as The Counting Crows. Apparently, this is her favorite band.
Score.
“You have very kind eyes – I could tell you were an artist when I first saw you, that’s why I sat down with you,” she tells me.
She asks me what I’m studying at UEA – I tell her creative writing which gets the same gasp/squeal as The Counting Crows.
She asks what kind of “stuff” I write. Despite loving to talk about writing, I hate getting this question. First of all, if I answered it truthfully I’d have to include term papers, emails and random messages I write on people’s Facebook walls – because that’s ALL writing. I’ve always felt like if it’s simple enough to explain concisely in conversation – why would you bother writing it down? Of course – this answer would kill a conversation real fast and make me look like a dick so I gave her my “thoughtful” copy/paste answer that I’ve been practicing for years.
“I like writing about human relationships. The psychology of human interaction is fascinating and tend to write situational fiction, primarily about getting through conflicts.”
In laymen’s terms, this translates to “I like writing about things happening to people...”
Someone looking for a longer answer will realize I haven’t actually said anything and ask a follow-up question, where as someone who just wants to show polite interest will nod their head approvingly and tell me it sounds interesting. She followed by asking who my favorite author is.
We get back onto acting – and I ask who her favorite performer is.
“Jerry Seinfeld,” she says.
“You know… my grandmother lived in the same little-old-lady home as his mom,” I tell her.
Really? Did I just try to brag about that? Wow… way to go, Slick Bandit.
She didn’t skip a beat though, we kept chatting and telling stories about our various artistic endeavors. I tried to remember a monologue I preformed my senior year of high school – got through the first few lines and then made up the rest of it.
“You should go to auditions! You’re so good!” she said excitedly, slapping my arm.
“Nah – I think I’ll stick to writing.”
“Well, you are a man of many talents,” she tells me, looking out the window.
“This is my stop,” she says. I look at my watch and realize mine should be in the next few minutes too.
“Come find me when your name is in lights – okay Mr. Writer?” she says and then lays a HUGE kiss on me.
“Okay…” I say, surprised and a little dazed.
Sure enough – my stop was the very next one. The bus driver stuck his head out of his little window and says “Hey you – this is you!” and I make my way back to Dom’s house.
I tell him the entire story, he and his brother laughing along the whole way.
No comments:
Post a Comment