8:51 AM
I'm jittering past Trinity Church on an egg, toast and a too-tall cup of home-brewed that I picked up from the coffee importer on St. Mark's place yesterday. My tour starts at 9AM for the third time in three days, and the G to the A has been kind and timely. I don't want to risk it by getting caught on a slow-moving 4 train to the Battery, making three stops in a quarter mile. I can jet down to the Battery on my steel-beam legs just as fast as the rush hour MTA can lurch it.
A New York Minute: The time it takes for a NEW YORKER to walk a single block. Test it sometime.
I've got the Indians for the third day in a row. The company from California that hires regularly but pays me erratically is bringing their Indian groups back to town for the 3rd year in a row. Last year was a windfall. I pulled off the NYC Tour Guide Scam to End All Scams, where I bought childrens' tickets for all the adults at a $7-per difference. 30-50 pax per bus, the gig was once a week. When handed the stack to the Ferry Line Man, I said:
"So how 'bout them Mets?" And the tirade went as long as it needed for him to rip the tickets en masse without looking at them once. The cats in Anaheim, CA were so busy chasing their own tail most of the time, they didn't have the time to check my receipts. I bought a flat screen television with that hustle and I salute Lady Liberty every time I get to bask in her oxidized copper glory.
Though I didn't really get around to paying my quarterly taxes like a good Freelance Tour Guide and Democrat should, so this year I'm scraping up every tour gig I can wrangle to pay off the government so they can pay off some bank that I never belonged to and still got to slap their name on some lousy new stadium.
Statue Cruises scan the tickets now, and California checks their numbers.
Anyway, the Indians. They're lovely people, they care dearly for their families and their fashion is a perfect blend of traditional Indian garb and familiarly corny Midwestern American. They drink good scotch, their food is delicious, and their table manners are polite yet emphatic. They understand that a fine, yet moderated belch is the sign of a well-enjoyed meal!
But they don't listen. I explained a full history of the Lady in the Harbor and then fielded 15 minutes of questions that required me to re-iterate everything I had just said. They have no sense of time-urgency, or the very real concept that the boats leave strictly every 30 minutes, and 11:50 is not just-as-good as 11:35. They yell their demands, and after saying that they had no interest in a walking tour, demand to see the Wall Street Stock Exchange, which no automobile is allowed anywhere near, and coach buses must circle the Byzantine labrynth of Lower Manhattan for a 20 minutes to give them their 3 minute photo-op. Then they complain about the walking.
And tomorrow, I get to reward myself with sleeping until 9, and have a leisurely morning cleaning the apartment that has gone into deep disarray. But today is day three. And today is a two-bus move, which requires a second guide. It's Dave McMahon, who is a older gentleman of theatrical training. That's an entire subset of the Tour Guide roster. He resembles Jack Nicholson enough so that I can't remember that his name is actually Dave, and at 6 minutes until launch time, I have to see if he beat me to starting point.
There's a 212 number in the early set of my recent calls and I dive in. An ambulance wails by (shit, before 9? This fuckin' city.) and I don't hear the "hello" when I pick up.
"Hey! Where are you?" I yell
"Umm. Greenwich Ave?" Greenwich. . . He must mean Greenwich street, near the Battery Tunnel Building.
"All right, I'll be there soon!"
"Wait, sir! We're not open yet." Sir? . . Who the F-
"I'm sorry. Is this Dave McMahon?"
"What? No!" Shit. I called some poor bastard before 9am, that a'int good. Wait. It's 9 now, and I'm passing Bowling Green.
"Sorry, wrong number." Who the hell did I just call?
4:37PM
They had to see the United Nations Building. Didn't matter that we passed by it turning off of First Avenue on to 42nd street on the way to lunch an hour late, had to get off and take a photo. Which gave us the opportunity to offer them the absolute New York expeirence: driving a bus west on 49th street at rush hour. The rest of the day had gone smooth enough, why did the final fuckitall have to stretch 37 minutes after I was supposed to clock out?
Going out last night was a bad idea. No, Going out was good, just being out to 1AM was a mistake. Actually, out till 1AM I can handle, if I go straight home after work, it was the $2 margaritas that made it a mistake, but hey, it was her birthday party, she chose the poison.
It would have been a lot better if that burrito joint was open when I had left. It was open when I first passed by it on my way to the bar, but when I called them, they said they were just closi-
Aaahhhaaaa. . . . .
Benny's Burritos in the West Village, I owe you one.
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