I know. I know. New York is supposed to be full of hardened creeps (and there are some, as documented here). But New York has a good side too.
I rushed out of the office last week with bags and computer, detoured to Whole Foods to buy some Belgian beer, and hopped in a cab headed to the East Village to meet The Boy, Easy E and Ms. Foliage at Sigiri Sri Lankan Restaurant. As I got out of the cab with all my gear, I stuffed one of the giant beer bottles under my arm and shuffled toward the restaurant door. But as I turned, the bottle slipped and was hanging precariously from my armpit. My armpit! I was about to waste a whole bottle of beautiful Oomegang brew into the gutter.
So there I was, bags akimbo, squeezing the hell out of that beer neck trying not to let it fly.
"Help me. Helllp meee!" I pleaded to someone, anyone on the street.
Now, I would have done the right thing - averted my eyes and scurried past quickly. But there she was - a samaritan in platform heels who helped me right my bottle, saving its poor soul from the indignities of the street.
Later that weekend, I was faced with a horrible turn of events. At Manhattan Diner, there was NO MILK for my coffee on the table. My god! The humanity! I looked around and located my waiter, shooting him a pained look and pointing to my sad and liquid-challenged creamer. As he scurried away, no doubt pumped with pride to deliver my much-needed lactose, a funny thing happened. The guy at the table next to me valiantly offered up his full creamer, enabling my coffee to achieve its special purpose.
So yes, Virginia, there are nice New Yorkers. Like so many other things, it just takes beer and milk to flush them out.