I was ordering merchandise one day when the clerk asked for my phone number. Why he didn’t already know, given modern caller-ID, was a mystery. But I dutifully began, “212 . . .” only to interrupted by “no, that’s wrong.” I may be old, but I do know my own phone number, so I continued in a slightly louder voice, enunciating carefully. “My telephone number is 212 . . . ” Again with the interruption: “It can’t be 212. You’re too polite to live in New York City.”
Indeed. I know the city’s reputation, which is in part deserved, but not all of us are unruly. Sometimes we’re just confused. I mean, what would you do if you were faced with this display?
Stop? Don’t stop?
To make matters worse, this beauty stands in front of the United Nations. Can you imagine tooling along First Avenue while decoding these mixed messages in your second or third language? I’d love to know how many people have crumpled fenders because (a) they stopped on the red signal and the car behind did not or (b) they didn’t stop at anytime but the driver in front did.
Not that New Yorkers obey signs all the time:
File under “wishful thinking.”
In case you missed the point, the car is blocking the building entrance, which is graced with a sign saying, “Do not block building entrance.” Of course, the driver could always argue (and if a New Yorker, probably does argue) that the building management has no jurisdiction over traffic. Only the cops and the Department of Transportation can regulate pedestrians and vehicles.
Not that others don’t try. One sign, widely mocked and willfully ignored, asked that people waiting at a bus stop not take shelter under the building’s awning or touch the canopy’s vertical supports. Sure. We’ll do that. Just as soon as it snows in July.
The sign lasted about a month. If that bus stop were closer to my house, I’d have stood under the awning every day, leaning on the pole, upholding the rights of us peasants.