New York Real Estate Wars
This conversation is probably interesting to exactly 3 pretentious New Yorkers.
“Where do you live?” he asked at the bar. “In the city?” The din of neighboring conversations and white noise crowded on us as we tried to find common territory.
“I’m in Park Slope.”
Blank expression.
30% blank expression; 70% smugness as he registered it was not Manhattan.
Smiling politely, I lobbed the question back. “You?”
“Oh, I live on the island - 25th and 1st.” He took a sip of his Mojito.
“Oh, so… Gramercy?”
“Yes, Gramercy.” He purred each syllable the way a schoolgirl writes her crush’s name. “And where does your friend live?” He nodded at R, in conversation with another.
“Carroll Gardens.” Beat. “Also, in Brooklyn.”
“Oh - so you two live together.”
“No, we live in different neighborhoods.”
“But” - investment banker ‘aha’ moment - “you both live in Brooklyn.”
“Yes. We both live in Brooklyn.”
And he took another sip of his drink. His hair was long, wavy, and had the self-conscious look of product. His collared shirt was unbuttoned just-so, and he wore tan Kenneth Cole loafers. The conversation was wrapping up with the score Douchebag: 1; Bar Chick: O when I decided to play bottom of the ninth.
“Wait,” I wrinkled my eyebrow in faux confusion, head cocked to one side. “Did you say 25th and 1st?”
“Yep.”
“That’s not really Gramercy, is it? Gramercy ends at 23rd and 3rd. So, is that like East Gramercy… the way East Williamburg is Williamsburg.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he used wide circular gestures, drink still in hand. “25th and 1st is not East Gramercy.”
“You’re right, you’re right.” I continued. “That isn’t the name of a real neighborhood. You’re more, like,” - pause - “Murray Hill.”
His eyes suddenly grew large; his jaw clenched for a flash of a second. He played with his stalk of mint and started looking for his friends.
R and I exited soon after. I didn’t need judges to tally up the final score.
