A few years ago, on a lovely Saturday afternoon, I went for a sensible walk down Second Avenue in the East Village. It was a typical day in the neighborhood—I walked past a crack head peeing on himself, a circle of “homeless teenagers” that you know actually live in a penthouse with their parents on the Upper East Side, and a few junkies sprinkled here and there. As I passed a famous BBQ joint, I observed a few fishbowl Margaritas and some pulled pork. Then I watched a delivery man approach the restaurant with a box. Before I knew it, he dropped the box, and raw chicken went flying all over the sidewalk. Then I watched the delivery man pick all the chicken back up, brush off the Morgellons Disease and urine it had sucked up from the pavement, and deliver it. I tell this story for two reasons: 1) to prevent people from eating at the famous BBQ joint and 2) because I like to hear myself talk.
A few years after the incident, I was at a party in Williamsburg. It was loud, but I could still hear someone talking over the music. “An entire box of legs and wings went flying,” this guy was saying. I joined in, “and then he picked it all back up…” Our eyes locked. I thought (in the words of Michael Jackson), this is it. We had both been there, we had both seen the chicken fly at the same time, on the same Saturday, on the same corner. Kismet. And that is how I met Mike. Now, we live on the Upper West Side and love to push around strollers with no babies in them. The End.
I’m lying (not about the chicken, about the relationship). Nothing ever happened between Mike and I, but I still think it’s pretty crazy that two people, two perfect strangers, were on the same corner, on the same day, watching the same chicken incident, and found each other to talk about it.
Lindsey Gentile is an actor, writer, comedienne, and all-around gal-about-town. Every Thursday, she reports from the front lines of single life in NYC. Check out her website HERE. Need more Big City Siren? No problem.
