It was 1991. I was 26
and unattached – no husband, no kids. So
I spent my time doing what I loved to do most: working in the theater, and
going to the theater.
The company I worked for was a small, scrappy non-profit,
with its Lower East Side, un-heated, un-air conditioned offices on East 2nd
Street, between Avenues A and B. One particularly bitter cold day, I accidentally melted the rubber soles of my shoes because my feet were too close to the space heater I had under my desk.
It was
a colorful neighborhood back then – colorful being a euphemism. Nowadays, I hear there’s a Starbucks or a GAP
on every corner, but back then, it was dangerous, with the big, bad Thompson
Square Park and all its drug dealers only five blocks away. I stayed clear of that area. My office block felt fairly safe, even pleasant, during the
day. One morning, when I was walking to
work from where the bus let me off, I heard a rich baritone singing “Up on the
Roof” from a fire escape somewhere. It
was a beautiful, surreal moment. I
couldn’t spot the singer, but the sky was a gorgeous, bright blue, contrasting
sharply with the deep red of the ornate crowns of the pre-war, walk-up
buildings.
I worked long hours, and enjoyed the work. There was a lot to do for this promising,
burgeoning company, and I didn’t mind chipping away at my perpetually long
“to-do” list, often well past dinnertime, all by myself in the office.
One Monday night, I worked until 11pm, when I finally
dragged myself to the corner of Avenue A and 2nd Street to catch a cab home. I was tired, and there weren’t a lot of cabs
around. I stood there, in the dark,
feeling rather vulnerable with my arm out, watching the traffic speed north,
when I finally saw a taxi with its light on coming toward me. I felt a wave of relief wash over me, but then, in a split second, a guy walking a half
a block away from me thrust his arm out.
The cab pulled over and he hopped in.
I was incensed! To a random guy
who happened to be walking by, I groused, “Did you see that?! That guy stole my cab! Clearly, chivalry is dead!” The young man kept walking, wordlessly. A moment later, I saw another cab and thrust my arm out. The guy I had talked to was now a half a block
away, and he put his arm out. “Oh, no,”
I thought. “Now HE’s going to steal my
cab.” But when the cab pulled over to
him, he pointed in my direction and sent the driver down to me. As I waved my thanks to him and got in the taxi, I heard him yell, “Chivalry is NOT dead!”
I smiled, my faith in humanity restored. I was so tickled by the story that I
immediately told it to the cab driver.
Leaning forward, with my face through the plexi-glass partition so he
could hear me, I spoke excitedly, concluding with, “Isn’t that great?!” The driver agreed that it was, but, he said,
he had one question: “Who’s Chivalry?”
PS – That theater company, Theatre for a New Audience,
recently built and opened a beautiful new performing arts center in
Brooklyn. I’d like to think that my hard
work all those years ago had a little something to do with its success. www.tfana.org
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