Off-Peak

Just how fucking early do you have to leave the house to not be late? The interview was in FiDi; only 45 minutes away, no big deal. I went over the entire route last night. The interview’s at 3 PM, which might look bad—maybe they want an early riser, a real go-getter, a proper robot boy—but I don’t know how the fuck to wake up in the morning, so I played it safe. But it’s fine. It’s not like I chose a quarter to closing or anything. 3 PM is the middle of the afternoon, the last real hour people give to their job before looking at the clock and waiting for 5 to arrive. 

So, 3 PM, but I’ll plan to arrive by a quarter to, both so I can look good, and also so I can use their bathroom and make sure I don’t look like shit.

Google Maps says it’s 45 minutes in ideal conditions, but we all know there’s no such thing as ideal conditions in the city. So, let’s look at it. First, I walk to the L at Graham. Realistically, it’s a 10-minute walk, but I’ll give myself 20. Cool. From there, either I can stop at Union Square and take the 4 5 6 or the N Q R W the rest of the way down, or I can take the L a bit farther, stop at 14th and 8, then take either the C or the E. This will take 3 minutes longer but is the ideal route according to Google…why? More stops, less choices, more time. How the fuck is this the best option? Forget it! I’ll go to Union Square.

Okay, so I walk to Graham and take the L to Union Square; 5 stops, 8 minutes. Easy. The next train should only take another 10 minutes, probably less, and then I’m only a few blocks away. Perfect. 

So, let’s pretend all that fails. Double everything. It takes me 20 minutes to get to the subway because my bum-ass ankle is giving me grief. Then the L is delayed and that takes 20 minutes to get to Union Square. Fine. Then every single fucking train at Union Square is also delayed and it takes another 20 minutes to get to FiDi. What should be a 5-minute walk to the office takes me 10, again, because the Insurance Industry decided I don’t need a fully functioning ankle. Add it all up and it’s still less than 90 minutes. No problem! If I leave at 12, how can I possibly be late? I’ll be so early that I’ll be able to stop at a coffee shop and get some extra preparation in and then I will get that God damn job. No problem. I got this.

Here’s what really happened: by some sort of miracle I was able to actually wake up at around 10. I had plenty of time to shower, make breakfast, eat that breakfast, and leave at 12—as planned—without feeling like I was in any sort of rush. It was going well. I was fucking ready. 

Sure, my ankle wasn’t being the best and it did take 15 minutes to get to Graham compared to the usual 10, but what’s 5 minutes, right? The L comes every 5 minutes, so it’s not like it mattered when I got there, only that I got there. 

Wrong. 

After strolling down the stairs like Mary fucking Poppins with nothing but time, I was alerted that the L wouldn’t be here for another 30 minutes. Odd, but there were still 2 hours and 45 minutes before the interview was to start, so I guess it’s not a big deal? Let me check why there’s such a delay, though. 

I opened the MTA app to find out that, due to a “track issue,” the L would not be running between Bedford and Halsey, which includes the stop I was at, Graham, and every stop on it that would be of any relevancy. Why was the station even open then if the L is the only train that runs through it? Good question!

So, the L wasn’t coming any time soon. The clock may have said 30 minutes, but what it really meant was Go Fuck Yourself. Now what?

The next closest train was the G. The G, which doesn’t go into Manhattan. The G which, for all intents and purposes, could give a fuck about my frivolous desires to leave Brooklyn. The absolute best the G would do is drop me off at the very beginning of Queens, otherwise known as Long Island City (nothing makes sense, I know). 

 Which is what I ended up doing, considering there was only a slim chance my foot could handle such a long bike ride, and the bus was not to be trusted (based on the 1 poor experience I had with it, which is all the experience you need to never trust the bus ever again). This cost me another 15 minutes as the closest G was not close at all and my ankle quickly transitioned from grunting to screaming. 

I arrived in Queens around a quarter to 1. Still plenty of time considering I could now take the same E Google was insistent is the best route all the way to the World Trade Center, a short walk from the interview. There would simply be 7 extra stops now. My new projected ETA was 1:30 PM and I was back to feeling like a big shot. Ready. To. Go.

But then the M showed up instead of the E and I was back to feeling like a total fool. The M? I don’t know where the fucking M goes! I’ve never taken anything on the orange line!

So, I didn’t take it, and instead waited for the next E to arrive, which obviously didn’t. Instead, the M arrived again and, assuming at this point that the E would never show up, jumped on it before it escaped. 

The M took me far, but far from close enough for my feet. I was, though, finally in Manhattan, 2 miles away at Washington Square Park. Back in Garden City (which is neither a garden nor a city but the boring neighborhood I grew up in and managed to flee from many years ago), 2 miles would have taken 2 seconds, but in Manhattan—even an Uber would take at least another 20 minutes. 

That would have been the wise thing to do—wiser still if I did it back in Brooklyn—but the price was still far more than my precious principles could handle. The fact that my principles couldn’t see the bigger picture—that if I got this job I would eventually be able to afford oh-so-many Ubers—is another story. 

At this point, I had lost all faith in the subway to take me any farther than it already failed to do and didn’t even check what the options were. Nor did I even consider a Citibike. I was sure that, even if I managed to not get creamed by a bus on the way there, I would certainly fuck up my suit in some way. 

So, I ran, straight down, hair sticking up like Alfalfa as I slipped past the Comedy Cellar. Then I made a wrong turn into Soho, whose shops mocked my style with their dry luxury threads as sweat soaked into mine. Back in the right direction, almost in Tribeca, I stumbled upon 8 Hook & Ladder, the site of the “Ghostbusters Headquarters,” just as my breath started to freeze in my throat. I hunched over, the ice cracking out of me in stifled coughs. My ankle throbbed loudly like a broken heart. My other ankle was quiet, perfectly-fucking-fine, which somehow made it worse.

The ghost on the sign looked at me in shock. Was I to become a mirror image of that fictional caricature?

Who ya gonna call?

“Ghostblusters,” I slurred out like a drunk.

“Fucking tourists,” a passerby mumbled. 

Turning my wrist, I looked in shock as the long arm on my watch approached 3.

That can’t be right, I figured and took out my phone.

But it was right. It was somehow already a quarter to 3 and I was still a little less than an entire mile away. It was official: I was going to be fucking late.

Still, I hobbled on, my bad foot sliding across the pavement like a wet banana while my other leg did all the work. I walked beside the river, where it was safe, while the horror of New Jersey haunted me from the other side. 

“Fuck you,” I spit out toward the water.

There were runners, bikers, skateboarders, cats, and dogs, all weaving around me as I cemented myself as the slowest creature on the boardwalk. 

Then it came into light, that big silver penis of an office building, and I knew I made it. All the bones in my battered ankle seemed to still be intact and, by the grace of the skydaddy some call God, their elevator was working. 

The time, however, was well past 3 Pm. It was, to my horror, an entire 13 minutes past 3. Certainly, I was fucked. 

This was my dream job. My way out. An interview with the Editor in Chief at the largest travel magazine in the nation. I was finally going to do something that mattered, author something that mattered, in the only way creation can matter: by finally having an actual audience. 

But there I was, fucked. Despite all my efforts, and all the pain it took to get here, I was completely fucked. 

Out of the elevator, I grinned through the pain, walked straight, and did my best to pretend I didn’t, surely, look like a rag doll that had just been soaked in a pool of sweat. 

The receptionist welcomed me with bright teeth and clean clothes. I gave her my name. She told me to take a seat. I said, what?

“He’ll be right with you,” she insisted.

“He still wants to meet with me? But I’m so late,” I confessed, like the idiot I was.

“He’s never on time,” she laughed. “You’re fine.”

My breathing was still so heavy. I could hardly respond.

“Can you direct me to the bathroom?” I asked.

Somehow, she understood, despite it all coming out like one word. 

“Is there time?” I added.

“Of course,” she told me, still amused. “Should he surprise me and come out any time soon, I’ll tell him you’ve been here for 30 minutes and couldn’t hold it in anymore.”

“You’re an angel,” I let out, turning before she could direct me.

“It’s the other way.”

After pissing what felt like my entire body weight out, I headed to the mirror to do damage control on my appearance. Surprisingly, it wasn’t as bad as I thought. My suit being black hid practically all of my sweat and, with a little water, I was able to return my hair to a presentable state. 

When I got out, I sat back down, took out my notes, and started to review what I had prepared. Despite the city’s best efforts, it turned out I was still early after all.