Flavor of the Week: Pining at Penn

Early Friday morning, as the cab inched down Fifth Avenue at the pace of a starry-eyed, pot-bellied tourist, I silently cursed the driver for taking that damned route. He should know better, I thought, and so should I. This is exactly what happened last time.

Last time. I almost laughed out loud. The real problem wasn’t the cabbie, but the fact that I was doing this yet again. Dropping another man off at Penn Station, with 40 blocks and 10 minutes to go. This time, he was an actual out-of-towner, an unintentionally celibate friend who’d needed to be put out of his misery (via fornication, not homicide). But there was nothing foreign about this trip.

My weakness for the cute regional accents that most normal people find abrasive (can you say “Lawn-Guy-Land” without throwing up a little in your mouth?) had thrust me into a tumultuous love affair with the LIRR. At some point, I realized that, ever since I moved back to New York, I hadn’t slept with anyone from the city proper. Merrick, Plainview, even East Islip—there was virtually no limit to how far I was willing to go into the murky depths of suburban mediocrity to dig up a man with a rich, nasal drawl—and the same first name as his father. And grandfather. And uncle.

The routine is always the same, and the last 10 minutes are always the worst.

As our yellow chariot creeps through Times Square, I secretly long for a visit from the president or an accident somewhere up ahead. Something to make us late enough to miss that train or bus, so he’ll have to catch the next one, an hour later. Anything to avoid the frustration and embarrassment of staying behind to pay for the taxi, as he darts off through the crowd to catch his departure at the last second.

Without fail, we make it there just in time, and I wonder why I bothered to go along for the ride in the first place. A cigarette later, I shove my way down the stairs and into the mouth of the beast. I take the first right past the Duane Reade (where I once bought ramen to ease the sore throat of a cocky cop from Suffolk County), head down the next escalator and make another right into the waiting area (where I used to pick up the guy from Long Beach who took my virginity) to use the ladies’ room.

As I empty my bladder, I reminisce over the past few nights, silently smiling at all of the idiosyncratic little things he and I did or said together: inside jokes, shared laughter. Then I remember where I am and how creepy this is, so I collect myself and flush.

I make my way back up into the ugliness of Midtown, and head east (yet again) via 31st Street to catch a glimpse of the cute firefighters between Sixth and Seventh avenues. New York’s Bravest talk the tawk and park for free, so, for just a moment, I imagine what Penn Station would be like as nothing but a friendly neighbor to my dashing new boyfriend’s workplace. For now, though, Penn is still the scheming succubus who lures my diphthong-loving dates back into the abyss.