Talk To Me
No, not to me, to them.
On my way home from Fairway with my goat’s milk, multi-flower honey, and PG Tips, I spotted a couple sitting on the corner of 73rd and Broadway with a sign that said: “TALK TO ME.” Nobody was talking to them.
So I walked up to them and said, “Okay, what’s your story?” And they just said, “How ya doing?” Before I knew it, I was talking to them.
It transpired while we were chatting so pleasantly that they met my editor, Bob Mankoff, in an elevator at a psychiatrists’ convention where he was the guest of honor (for all the shrink cartoons he’s done). And he’d talked to them too, for three hours. They were discrete, dammit, and wouldn’t tell me anything except that he’d told them the story of his life over many drinks, of how he’d lost it all and got it all (in that order, I believe). At this point, I thought I should make something up that would top his story, but since I also had some frozen green beans in my bag (packed cleverly around my goat milk to keep it cold), I had to go home before they defrosted.
Other people that have talked to them include Tom Wolf, a fashion photographer named Simone (they forgot her last name, but apparently she was the only punk latina in Washington Heights in her time), inmates at a prison, inmates at a nursing home, and other less savoury types that I, not they, judged as less savoury. They’ll talk to anyone!
Places they have succeeded in sneaking into include Donald Rumsfeld’s offices (I’m pretty sure that’s what they said), and a $500 plate dinner. Places they haven’t been able to infiltrate include the Conde Nast building (security is apparently tighter there than it is at the government offices they’ve penetrated).
Read more about these affable Talk To Me kids, who traipse around America with their TALK TO ME sign, and (if you’re feeling unabashedly desperate and lonely) order yourself a TALK TO ME t-shirt.
[NYCtalktome.com]
