What is it about New Yorkers, anyway?

By August Cosentino

Are they rude, cranky, and self-obsessed? Do they focus on nothing but the phone they seem to tap on endlessly? Or is that gruff exterior just a coverup for a generous, caring soul inside—a person who would go out of his/her way to do something nice for you?

I’ll tell you a true story. You decide.

This morning as I was riding my bike back from the George Washington Bridge in 90-degree heat, I decided to stop in Washington Heights (as in the movie “In the Heights”) to buy a Coke. I take out my wallet from the back of my jersey , give the guy a buck, resume my ride, and just to make sure I have everything, I feel for the back pocket in my jersey.

No wallet. 

I reclimb that long steep mother-flocker of a hill on 165 St, go back to the soda guy, ask if anyone had turned in a wallet (nope), search under his cart, look in the garbage pail where I had tossed the empty Coke can, retrace my steps for at least a half of mile down the mother-flocker hill…

Still no wallet.

Yup. I’d been pickpocketed. First time it’s happened to me in 45 years here. Damn.

Miserable, hot and depressed, I ride home, which is about eight miles away from the Heights. I am particularly sad because I’m leaving town Friday and now have no ID. No drivers license. No credit cards. No ATM. No Medicare card. Swell. Not.

I get home and of course start calling banks and canceling credit cards. Then I think even if I did get a temporary ATM card to get some cash, what would I put it in? I need a credit card to buy a new wallet. Ugh

About half an hour later, in the depths of my despair, the doorman buzzes me. “There’s a guy down here named Joe who says he’s got something for you.”

This is the point in the film where the camera comes in close on my face, and the corner of my mouth starts to tremble.

“I’ll be right down!” I reply, trying not to scream.

I get down to the lobby and this chubby sweaty guy stands up. I ask, “Are you Joe?” looking at him like Kevin Costner looked at Ray Liotta in “Fields of Dreams.”

He holds up the wallet. I go over, sigh deeply, and give him the biggest bro hug ever.

“But how did you…where did you?” I start to babble, cradling the stupid wallet like it’s Marie Antoinette’s pearl necklace.

“I found it right underneath the drink cart on 168th Street,” Joe explained, as if he were describing how he turns on a television set.

I promptly give him a reward, check to see if everything is still in the wallet (I am a New Yorker after all) and started calling everybody in sight with this joyous news. (Cue “Let the joyous news be spread” line from “Ding Dong The Witch is Dead.”)

When I FaceTime with my buddy Brad, he listens quietly to the story and says, “No. I’m sorry. You must have moved to a Midwestern state.”

I just grin, and start replaying Billy Joel’s “New York State of Mind” in my head.

Then everything returns to normal. I need to run a few errands (practically skipping down Third Avenue as I do them). Then on the spur of the moment, I decide to treat myself to a ride home on an air-conditioned bus.

I look up and lo and behold, there’s the bus! As it comes closer, I read the sign “Out of service.” 

Ugh. Back to reality. 

Yeah, yeah. But sometimes, you do get lucky. In New York. Wonderful town, huh?