The Midtown Xenoglossist
By Jeff Urban
“спасибо!”, I breathlessly blurted, thanking “en passant” the stooped Ukranian man
who pointed out both the distant location and imminent arrival of my beloved 3 Train,
whose intermittency had become a real source of annoyance in recent months. The
nominal reason is “flooding”, but I’m convinced it’s a conspiracy to force more people
to walk everywhere thereby increasing local Chapstick and coffee sales. Anyway, Krista
and I were supposed to meet for lunch in Chinatown and as neither of us were very
excited about walking in the brutal arctic landscape that is early February in
Manhattan, we agreed to do the public transport thing and then the search-and-cell for
one another thing.
As I emerged from the concrete stairwell onto Canal Street, I was immediately thrust
into the fantastic cacophony of Chinatown…in its most placid moments, it’s almost
quiet enough here to make out the neverending parade of police sirens and angry,
urgent ambulance screeches. I’m futilely scanning the serried ranks for her one
trademark feature…a fire-hydrant-red winter coat. Unfortunately, however, wearing red
in Chinatown is more Camouflage than Beacon.
Ah, but there she is. I love her, but I couldn’t tell you why. Or, rather, I admire her
lovingly with consciously repressed desire, as all timorous-yet-horny men feel toward
their flirty female friends. Perhaps it’s because she tolerates me, and so few people
do. I dunno.
“Hey dude…I’m freezing…let’s eat!”, Krista offered with shivering enthusiasm.
“Capital.”, I offered, wondering exactly how I could sound so profoundly stupid having
said so little. Capital?! Seriously, am I Sherlock Holmes looking for Baskervillian
Hounds? Where’s my pipe?
And so we walked. And walked. And talked very little; the vampiric cold was sucking the
last BTU’s directly out of our bodies into the stolid evening air.
“Not to be a backseat walker, Dyl, but I thought you wanted to go to the Golden
Monkey?…I’m pretty sure it’s the other way.”, Krista confidently offered after 15
minutes of an admittedly aimless stroll.
“Erm…maybe…let’s just go a bit further”, I stated with false bravado…my close female
friends are always needling me to be more “confident” on dates.
Five more minutes passed, and an increasingly ruddy Krista piped up again: “OK, get
over yourself…I won’t make a big deal of it this time…I promise…it’s *really* cold, Dyl,
Pleeease!”
“Why, whatever do you mean Krista?”…I sneeringly quipped, as an unidentifiable liquid
dripped out of my nose. Damned winter weather. Why aren’t there more reputable
Universities in the Caribbean?
“I Promise!” “!!!”, she glared another exclamation at me.
“Oh, alright…”, and thus I pestered the nearest pedestrian with any appearance of
good-humor…
“对不起，在哪儿那个’金候 饭店’?”, I finally had the courage to ask a very humble-
looking eldery Chinese man. Well, actually Taiwanese. You can totally tell from the way
he pronounced “吃”. So unmistakable, it almost makes me chuckle. I nod and thank the
man, trying to muster up the courage to tell Krista she was right. Two blocks back the
other way, and one street over. Jeez. What a schmuck.
So I glance over at her, and she’s got this mix of wide-eyed disbelief and smoldering
adoration. I always feel uncomfortable when I do this stuff. I’m not even sure how it
started. Look, it’s not like I spend my nights flipping through flashcards or watching
international TV stations, OK. Besides, *she’s* the smart one.
“What.”, I spit out, more as a statement than a question. “Just stop it, OK?”
“It’s amazing…won’t you at least acknowledge it’s amazing?”, an either very intrigued
or smitten Krista proffers. I’m a man, so I can’t tell the difference.
“Whatever.”, I ingeniously reply. OK, it was stupid. But I am tired of people staring at
me like I’m fucking Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Yes, I can comprehend and speak a bunch
of languages. OK, great. So can Google and your average UN translator.
The Golden Monkey kicks ass…their hot and sour soup is a real treat for both of us
after our half-hour of misguided peregrinations. After a few cups of tea, our faces have
nearly regained their customary pigmentation. It’s wonderful to catch up with Krista;
she’s one of those real energetic, talented (OK, she’s beautiful too…) women who you
know is destined for Important Things. I find I spend the next few days after our
“dates” in a daze of self-loathing, questioning why the “America’s Next Top Model” re-
runs are sucking so much of my life away. Homo Sapiens as the Pinnacle of Evolution,
my ass.
Yep, she’s a Julliard star, but not a self-absorbed brat. A real diamond amongst the
mounds of Sierra Leone dirt and grime that so defined our high school experience.
When you consider the fact that I’m the other “successful” kid from Sturemont High
and I now spend my weekdays as an actuary, trying to figure out if the 25 year-old
asthmatic with head lice and a penchant for eating puffer fish is statistically more likely
to die in the next 20 years than the 37 year-old father of two who smokes recreationally
but jogs 10 miles a week, well, then you can appreciate my esteem for Krista.
“Huh, what?”, I mumbled, lost amidst the tumbleweeds of my own reveries. Again.
“I know it’s a touchy subject, but I’ve been studying a lot about your ‘condition’
recently…it’s been a slow semester and I have a friend in linguistics…”, she timidly
places a toe into the conversational bathwater…
“What, aren’t Schoenberg and the tone row enough to keep you up at night? Enough,
OK, seriously. It’s not that exciting and probably not that unusual. NO MORE. Fin!” , I
cavil with pointless ardor.
“Look, I’ve known you forever and it’s just that…I know it’s not a super-power or
anything…I’m just trying to understand it. Could I just ask you a few questions…I mean,
in 8 years you’ve never said anything about it. I’ve seen you order food in Mandarin
Chinese, get us free Vodka by telling jokes in Russian at the Samovar House, give
directions in Hindi to lost visitors in Times Square, translate subway maps into Korean,
you speak Spanish like you’re a Ruiz and not a Phillips, and…”
I had to put an end to this.
“Shit. Eeeeee-nough. C’mon. Do I ask you how it feels to be able to play three
instruments and sight read music without trying? Eh? I flunked the flutophone. ‘Hot
cross buns’ was just too tonally complex for me. Don’t you get it?! How would you like if
I looked at you all moon-eyed every time we were at the movies and you told me the
French Horn in that orchestral background music was a half-step out of tune? Have
you ever thought about that?!”. This had been killing me for ages. I was glad to finally
get this off my chest, even if it meant opening a bit of a gash in an otherwise
seamlessly tapioca smooth friendship.
“I, for one, would like it.”, a now passionately defiant Krista stated. “You never take an
interest in anything, haven’t you noticed? We spend all of our time talking about the
latest bands and the latest books, why Sudoku kicks ass, and who has the best
espresso in the Village, yada yada yada…we ARE the proverbial morons in Starbucks!”.
She was clearly upset, and I felt kind of like a grade-A heel. So, perhaps a
rapprochement was in order.
“Alright…you’re right. And I mean that, sincerely. Well, you know the game 20
Questions? You get 5. And then I’m done for today. Maybe for ever”. That’s my big
reconciliation. What a shrewd negotiator I am.
“OK, let’s start here…” as she predictably digs in her purse for a handwritten list of
questions…as though she had anticipated painting me into this conversational corner.
“When did you…