DAY 14: Don't Call Me, I'll Call You…Maybe 41/90

Back when I still lived in Queens, I was headed to Brooklyn one Saturday to hang out with my boys. I only had two options in terms of getting to BK. The first was the F train right down the block from crib, but that meant going all the way through the city to actually reach the borough of kings. The second was actually faster, but meant a 15 min walk to the J train, which would then connect directly to the A/C trains. Anyone that ever wondered why they never saw me out much on weekends when I lived in Queens or why I despised that barren place so much, there's your answer right there—that commute was killer on the social life. 

Anyway, on this particular Saturday I wound up taking the second option. After taking my 15-minute hike to the J station, I hopped on the train and settled in for my 45 min ride. Getting on at the first stop there's usually not many people on the train, and right before I popped my headphones in, the girl across from me asked if the train was going to Albee Square Mall. To the best of my knowledge, I didn’t recall the J train going anywhere in the vicinity of Albee. I informed the girl of this and she looked distraught. She was sitting right in front of the train map, so I got up and helped her figure out the best route to get to where she needed to go. After a quick survey of the intertwined veins of the New York transit system, I surmised that her best bet was to get off at the Broadway Junction and just catch the C train to Hoyt-Schermerhorn. It wasn't the closest stop, but at least she'd be within walking distance. She thanked me for the help and I went back to my seat across from her to enjoy the tunes emanating from my iPod.

While I was rockin' out to Kanye’s then-new album The College Dropout and people watching, I happened to notice that homegirl had dosed off. I took note of that and wondered if she'd miss her stop. I know I nod out all the time on the train, but it's never a sound sleep (unless I'm drunk and wake up on the train floor, long story for another blog). Despite my eyes being closed I'm still pretty cognizant of what's going on around me and what stop I'm at. Clearly, homegirl wasn’t because as the train snarled into Broadway Junction, which was also my stop, I saw she was still knocked out. Rather than let this poor child miss her stop and wind up in West Bumblefuck, Brooklyn and more lost than she already was, I tapped her and told her this was her stop. Embarrassed, she wiped the drool from her mouth, gathered her things and hurried off the train.

I had done my Good Samaritan deed for the day and kept it moving. I took the long escalator down to the C train and waited on the local platform on the Manhattan bound side. A few moments later, homegirl strolled up and stood two pillars down from me. As long as she stayed awake this time she'd be fine because I was getting of two or three stops before she had to.

The train pulls into the station and I grab a seat on one of the middle benches. Homegirl walks through the empty car and sits down in the two-seater directly to my far left. For the most part, I'm paying her no mind, until I spot her from the corner of my eye trying to get my attention. Figuring she needs more directions, I pull my headphones out and turn to her, "What's up?"

She gestures for me to come join her in the corner seat. (Did I fail to mention that shorty really wasn't that cute? She wasn't horrid, but she just wasn't my type at all.) Looking at the cramped space next to her in the corner seat and then the massive amount of space to my right (I was the only one on my bench) I asked her to come over and sit by me for whatever it is she wanted to talk about. She refused and continued to gesture me over. I finally folded and walked over to take a seat next to her.

"Hi, thank you again for helping me."

"No, problem."

"My name is Sherease by the way."

"Okay, I'm Anslem."

"Is that African?"

"Nah, it’s biblical actually."

"What's that mean?"

"It's from the Bible. He was a saint and a philosopher."

"Oh, okay... So I was wondering... You have a girlfriend?"

"Huh? Nah."

"Oh, okay. I know I look a mess right now, but I didn't get my hair done this week and I’m just getting off work so this is my work clothes."

"Uhm, okay, no problem."

"So, you have a number?"

"Uh… yeah."

"You have a pen or some paper?"

"Nah, sorry I don't." That was a bald-faced lie. I'm a writer, so I always walk around with a pen. Back then, I typically had my business and personal cards on me, too, but she was getting neither. Like I said, shorty just wasn't my style and if the above conversation wasn't further proof of that, I don't know what was. But this woman was damn sure persistent.

"Okay, no problem. I think I have one," she said, starting to rummage through her purse. She pulled out a blue Bic pen and some flyer for a church. Holding the pen and paper in her hand, she continued, "I would give you my number but my phone is cut off... But it'll be on soon, though."

"All good. No worries," I said, ignoring the pen and paper she's trying to give to me. "My handwriting sucks, so why don't you just right it down."

"Okay, how do you spell your name?"

"It's A-N-S-L-E-M."

"Okay, what's your number?"

This was the moment of truth. I have no interest in this woman and now she's accosting me for my number. I could easily just say no, but that would be rude, right? Like, how could I say no when I'm seated right next to her and have to ride the same car with her for another four stops? What, do I get up after that and return to the seat I was at before just five feet away and pretend that she didn't just spend the past five minutes trying to get my number? Sigh.

"Uh, it's 917-555-28....3...uh, 2." The first three numbers are easy, but as you go down the line, you start to slow up as you weigh your options. Do you give the correct number or change one digit and chalk it up to a typo? I'm not sure why, but that “2” completed the correct combination to my mobile. I regretted it as soon as I uttered the sequence of numbers. My only hope was that her chicken scratch etched on the edge of that flyer would be undecipherable whenever she got her phone turned back on or just got lost in her cavernous purse. If only I were so lucky.

After enduring a few more minutes of mindless banter, my stop came up and I informed Sherease that I was about to get off. Inquisitively, she looked up, "Is this my stop, too?"

"Nah, nah, you stay on. You're stop is a couple more after this."

"You sure?"

"Yes, the Albee isn’t anywhere around here at all. Just stay on ‘til Hoyt-Schermerhorn and you'll be fine."

"Oh, okay."

"Bye."

"Thank you."

Despite my disinterest in Sherease, I hopped off the train with a little swag in my step. A female practically throwing herself, busted or other, at you is still an ego booster. But once I reached my destination, Sherease was nothing but a distant memory and I moved on with my life.

A few weeks later, Sherease’s life caught up with mine. My phone vibrated on my hip and when I looked down at the screen there was an unfamiliar number on the caller ID.

"Hello?"

"Hey, I don't know if you remember me but..."

She didn't even have to finish her sentence before I knew who it was. Something deep down just told me it was...

"... Sherease. We met on the train a few weeks ago and you helped me on the train."

"Yeah, I remember. How you doing?"

"I'm fine, I just got my phone turned back on and I figured I'd call you. Is this a bad time?"

"Actually, yeah, it is. I'm out with my friends and I don't wanna be rude."

"Oh, okay, well did my number come up in your caller ID?"

"Yeah," I said, looking at the phone screen again. "This 347 number, right?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"Okay, I'll give you call later."

"Bye."

"Peace."

Not to be rude or anything but I had no intentions of calling that poor girl back. Why I even gave her my real number I’ll never know. I still can't believe she called. Well, she'll forget about me soon enough and that will be the end of that. But still, my conscious ate at me. Every time a new call came in on my cell it pushed Sherease's number further down the call log. Since I didn't write her number down or save it in my phone, after my 20th new call, the number would be lost forever.

I think Sherease’s number was on the last spot in my call log when she finally called again. I was at work and saw a unknown but slightly familiar 347 number pop up.

"Hello?"

"Hey, this is Sherease."

"Hey, how you doing?"

"Fine. I thought you were supposed to call me back."

"I was.... but I got busy... and then your number got deleted from my call log..."

"Okay, so what's up?"

"I'm actually at work now, so I'm kinda busy. Why don't you call me later tonight."

"Nah, I always call, so you call me."

"Okay, I will."

"That's what you said last time."

"I know... but … I'll holla at you. "

"Bye."

"Peace."

Once again I found myself lying to this poor girl. She never called again and neither did I. The fact of the matter is, I never have any intentions of calling her—except when I saw her number in my call log. But as the days went on, her number slid further and further down until the list until Sherease and the seven-digit combination to her phone faded into oblivion and they both became distant memories.

So here’s the question: Was I wrong? If so, what should I have done to handle the situation differently?