Author's Note

This is the revised version of my NYC journal. It is the version that was emailed to the two ladies who were the inspiration, and the main characters, in the story.

I apologize for the lack of uniformity in the text (i.e., the font type, size, style, etc.), but blogger, the wonderful, free entity that it is, decided to format some entries one way, and others another. It was not intentional. But I refuse to edit it again.

Enjoy.

Prologue

I recently took a trip to New York City. My intents and purposes were to meet up with an old friend, one Adam Shatarsky, and oversee the filming of a short film, the screenplay for which I had finished writing only weeks prior.

What follows is based on actual events.

To protect the innocent, some names and locations have been changed. To condemn the guilty, all else has been told as honestly as possible, except where I, the author, felt the need to indulge slightly in an effort to have myself come across more as a witty god-like figure than the slimy, detestable cockroach I was, and perhaps, to some extent, shall forever continue to be.

.01.

I arrived on Saturday. 11:00pm. 527 West 46th Street. Between 10^th and 11th. Apartment 11. Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan, New York, New York, United States of America.

I was greeted by the incomparable Adam Shatarsky (actor, friend, wanker, soon-to-be SAG member), his sister-in-law's friend, Shannon (19, hairdresser, model, Paris Hilton meets Jessica Simpson), and his roomie, Mark (actor and fellow circle in square).

We four decided to hit the town, stopping first at a local watering hole just down the street from the old apartment (aka, Fustercluck), and each consuming some lovely barley beverages.

Note: Fat Angel - odd name, great beer.

After having far too much of a good time, and with the evening progressing on as it is wont to do when such merriment is pursued, the roomie and the hairdresser decided to retire, as they both had early wake up calls in mind, an affliction with which, thankfully, Mr. Shatarsky and I were not stricken.

And so, we allowed the large, burly man to see himself home, and Adam and I escorted Miss Shannon back to her Hotel.

In all actuality, Adam was escorting the lady... and I was merely tagging along to be sure he didn't get himself into too much trouble, as he is terribly wont to do.

And so... we, the remaining duo, having successfully escorted the model back to her room where the very pregnant sister-in-law waited, began to make our way to the lovely Kevin St. James bar on 8th Avenue.

Perchance 'twas chance. Chances are it was. For as much as it seemed unknown and unpredictable, it also felt controlled by an exterior force. But whatever it was that caused us to gravitate to this particular location... and whatever it was that saw fit that we meet a certain two individuals... it cannot be denied that a chance was provided... and it was jumped at.

.02.

I stared up at the massive, dark skyline. Adam finished his cigarette and flicked it out across the busy Avenue. We turned to head inside. The large doorman stood with arms folded across his chest while we presented him our ID's. He wore a scowl which made you think you'd already done something terribly wrong.

The scowl melted into a warming smile, as his voice boomed, "How are we, Gentlemen? Welcome."

He ushered us inside, and we began snaking our way through the dangerously crowded idiots' breeding ground.

We took up a position within comfortable ordering distance of the bar and tolerable viewing distance from the large screen televisions at the far end of the bar beaming forth the USC game (Cal, not Cocks), and ordered a round of drinks.

After enjoying the game and our beers for several minutes, and after a trip to the luxurious bathroom each, we took note of two females beginning to draw a rather, how you say, dull crowd.

As they were standing and sitting directly next to us, or rather, to be more specific, directly next to Adam, we enjoyed our front row seats to the mating dance. Whatever price we paid for this show, which I believe was the price of two beers each ($10 plus tip), was well worth it, as there was no shortage of clichés, horrible "dancing," and the unbuttoning of one's shirt in an effort to heighten the throw of one's machismo.

Finally, my partner in perversion could no longer contain himself and let out an unstoppable laugh. The female directly beside him, named Christine, as we would soon find out, took notice of his overt delight in the spectacle, and pulled him to the side, asking, "Are you with these guys?"

To which Adam replied, "No. I don't even know them."

Now, let me tell you a little something about Adam Shatarsky. He is one of the most brilliant actors I know. But the man does not think before he speaks. I do not say this to be mean, but merely to point out a fact. He, himself, will admit to this fault, if one could even call it that in today's society.

I tell you this so that you will understand, at least to the degree that he and I understood after discussing this occasion at great length after the fact, that when he said "No. I don't even know them," he did so in a perfect lower-class, East End, British dialect.

"Oh my," Christine replied, "Where are you from?"
"From London."

A few days later Adam confided in me, "Right then she should have known I was full of it. Nobody's from London." Adam certainly wasn’t from London. He’d never been anywhere near London. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Gin, he probably wouldn’t even know the place existed.

"Wow. What are you doing here?" She queried.
"Shootin' a film that my mate wrote," he replied gesturing to me, who at the time was completely unaware of these happenings due to the noise level inside the bar.

"Oh. Where's he from?"
"He's from London, too."

.03.

"Man, they must've been thick," Adam told me later, "both of us... from London... I mean, come on. What was I thinking?" (Remember what I told you about Adam?) He was unaware that I had alleviated that indiscretion later that evening, claiming to being born in Ireland before moving to London as a boy.

"You're British," he turns and says to me.
"What?"
"We're both from England."
"Why?"

He responded only with a shrug and a look of confusion and amazement that was fraught with much more meaning than perhaps necessary. Or at least, so it seemed at the time.

The evening progressed with thick accents, surprising football events, and me chatting it up with Debra, the taller, skinnier, and older, we would come to find out, companion of Christine.

And of course our mere presence was not enough to shake the retards from the immediate vicinity, and so we continued to enjoy the floor show of embarrassingly deliberate sexual hopes and desires.

I laughed until I quite literally almost wet myself. I excused myself.

When I returned, Adam was pulling his hat out of his coat pocket, zipping himself up, and preparing for the night air. The ladies were already making their way towards the door, along side the Hooligans. Adam looked over in my direction and his face went all panicky once again. He stepped up next to me and yelled.

"Oh my God, dude! They want us to go to a different bar with them!"
"Serious?"
"Totally." He jumped back into the dialect even though no applicable parties were anywhere near.
"Well?"
"Dunnos."

The look on his face showed that he was still processing this entirely unbelievable turn of events. I knew I could say "No," and we would leave, and both he and I would feel immense relief to no longer have to keep up this dirty little lie.

But what fun would that be?

I jumped back into the dialect myself.

"Well, we'd better hurry before they run off and leave us here twiddlin' our thumbs."
"Alright!"

His face lit up. Despite the insane amount of work it took to constantly select what you will say and how you will say it, especially in the midst of a loud, alcohol infused setting, the opportunity to be someone else for an entire evening was far too brilliant for such a young, method actor to just walk away from.

We ran out into the cold night to find the group hailing taxis.

.04.

There were 8 of us. Myself, Shatarsky, Christine, Debra, and the four Jackals.

One taxi showed up and three of the Jackals hopped in. A taxi could usually hold four people. So this little event caused a bit of wonderment, since we now needed two more cabs instead of just one. Later we would find out that the remaining Jackal was doing everything in his power to overcome Debra with his sexual prowess.

Another taxi was finally hailed, and after the report from the driver that he would take no more than four people, I, knowing full well what Adam would do, said that I would hang back and catch another.

For a second there was a pause. I began to question him. But then he spoke up.

"Yeah. You ladies go ahead. We'll meet you there."

He had already infested her head. I was afraid of that. "I'll wait around with you," Christine said. And with that the taxi sped off, leaving Christine alone with the British likes of Shatarsky and Me.

"Oh, no!" she exclaimed as soon as they were out of sight, and as Adam and I were failing miserably at trying to flag a cab. "I just let my friend get into a cab alone with someone I don't even know!"

You're about to do the same, I thought to myself. And just like that, a cab pulled up and in we went.

"To the Cellar Bar, please, mate!"

.05.

The Cellar Bar.

Barrel-vaulted ceilings, ancient chandeliers, loud system, soft lights. Women dancing behind the bar, grasping on to wrought-iron concoctions lit with neon lights. $8 bottled beers. Wines ranging in prices up to $19/glass. Leather sofas.

This was more of a club than a bar. Small, yet with ample dancing real estate, which we used. Boy, did we ever. At one point, Adam, later pleading too drunk to remember, busted out the Robot.

The dialects went well at this point, with dancing always being an option to cutaway, and having more time to practice and more alcohol in the old system. We had to remember to use words such as "Lift," when presented with an elevator and so on... plus we threw in a few blatant stereotypical phrases to try to get a laugh out of each other.

As the night progressed further into morning, the ladies' feet, particularly Christine's, began to feel the pain of walking around NYC all day, and she permanently sidelined herself.

So, we ended up getting into our backgrounds and such. Since Adam only really knew of two locations in London, he ended up answering the "Where in London are you from?" question with none other than "Trafalgar Square."

Apparently he thought "Piccadilly Circus" was too unbelievable.

A few more dances, and a few more drinks (paid for by the ladies - a little dialect goes a long way), and the morning had wound its way around to 4:00am.

The music stopped, the lights came on, and everyone poured out of the bar onto the sidewalks of 40th Street.

There was quite a bit of awkward standing around, before I spoke up.

"Any place around here serve tea this time of night?"
"Ooh, yeah. I could do a bit of that," Adam chimed in. "And maybe some breakfast."

Christine added her two cents, noting a great diner around the corner from their hotel. She then proceeded to attempt to pry one of the Hyenas off of Debra, which almost resulted in a fight. But that is an entirely different story altogether.

Suffice it to say, in two shakes of a lambs tail, or thereabouts, Adam, Christine, Debra, and myself were in a cab heading for a local diner, with the ladies' calling out insults on the Tools an praising the likes of us Limeys.

.06.

As the cab sped off, I reached out for something to steady myself as I hung on to what little sobriety remained.

The city sped by in a dizzying spell of lights and sounds.

The conversation inside the taxi generally focused on us and how great we thought New York was. The dialect became a song. A free-flowing melody all too easy to take part in and enjoy.

However, as moments emerged where our gullible guests found themselves looking out the windows at the city, Adam and I found each other staring at each other, carrying on another conversation, silently, with our eyes and less-than-subtle facial expressions, unbeknownst to our fellow travelers, concerning our current situation.

What the--?
I know.
How did--?
I don't know.
Can you--?
Heck, no. You?
Never.
Man.
You're an idiot.
I know.

Or at least, so the inner monologues played out in my mind.

We got to the diner, found a table, and began perusing the menus. Immediately I realized my first problem. I really wanted eggs over easy with toast and hash browns. That didn't sound very British to me.

Ah well, I thought, I'll have a go at an American breakfast. And to complete the ensemble, I ditched the hot tea and ordered a coffee. Black.

As we waited for the food to arrive, the first large speed bump of our little game emerged. Or, perhaps, I should say, the first large speed bump that I noticed emerged.

Christine looked directly across the table at me and said, "So how come you didn't have such a strong accent earlier at the bar and now you do?"

Gulp. I had to think quickly. Especially since between the gulp and me thinking about how quickly I had to think, several seconds had passed and Shatarsky had not come to my rescue. Even he was stuck. This was bad.

"Did I do that?" I bought a little bit of time. "Was I speakin' like an Irishman? I sometimes do that when I'm pissed." (Had to remember the old slang) "Or at least, so I've been told."

"I don't know. It definitely sounded different." She thought. "Yeah, that could have been it."

My God, these women were priceless.

Adam finally decided to ring in now that I had alleviated the situation, but I was thankful none the less as he turned the conversation over on them. He was a ladies' man, through and through, which is why, I imagine, he did so. Either way, I was relieved.

We talked about how they were both from Georgia, how Debra was recently divorced, and 32-years-old (we, the sly devils we were, definitely played the charmers and told her she didn't look a day over 24, which she didn't really), and how the two of them were up on a "Ladies Weekend" that they do every year with their friend Sherri who was back at the room. Sherri, the married one, was apparently not the partying type. She was 38. Christine, as it turns out, was 26 (again... not a day over 23... again, not too much of a stretch).

Somehow, the women managed to work the conversation back over to the two of us and the screenplay that we were to shoot that week. Christine asked me about it, and I described it as best I could.

"Wow," she commented. "Very interesting. I'm a writer as well."
"Oh really," I said, "what do you write?"
"Novels."

She said it in a very forced, very bad British accent. She did this quite often throughout the evening. It usually caused Adam and myself to laugh, which in turn caused both of them to smile. It was little things like that that made me believe that although I was going to hell for my actions that evening, perhaps I would at least get stuck in the slow lane... the one with the gorgeous view on the way down.

.07.

"Novel, I should say,” Christine corrected herself, “Only one so far. But it's nearly finished. Three Hundred and Eighty Pages."
"Good Lord," Adam reeled back. "Tryin' to set a record or something?"
"Well, it's a very complicated story."
"Apparently," I said.
"What kind of book is it? One of those naughty American ones?"

He was referring to Romance novels. Adam, I may have mentioned before, does not think on many occasions, and would very often repeat a certain word if he liked the way it sounded (or, even better, if the girls liked the way it sounded) in his Cockney verbiage. "Naughty" was one such word.

"No," she said. "It's a thriller. A murder mystery."

"Ooooh. Hello."

("Hello" was another.)

"Well," Adam continued, "You'll have to let me have a look at it."
"Will I?" She was trying the accent again. It was cute.
"Yes. That way I can tell you if it's a load of shite. Keep you from wasting your time."

It was starting to get thick. His smile was almost as big as hers. It was sickening.

"No. I kid," he said, pulling out a pen and scribbling on a napkin. "There's my email. You send it there, I'll have a look see, tell you what I think. Deal?"

Alright. At this point he's relinquished one item of personal information. Now, granted, it's only an email, which can change on a daily basis and has no real national ties. I did notice, however, that he gave his Netscape account, rather than his America Online account. So maybe he was thinking more than I give him credit for.

We enjoy our breakfast and everyone takes turns staring at the bill as though it were a piece of modern artwork. After we finally get everything squared away, we step out into the early morning air.

We ask the ladies where they are staying, and if we can walk them back. Christine answered with the name of a hotel that I have now long since forgotten. But at the time, I recognized the name from a sign right across the street of the hotel where Miss Shannon was staying.

Oh my, I thought to myself, That's right across the street from the Marriott Marquis.

"Oh my," said Adam, "that's right across the street from where we're staying: at the Marriott Marquis."

I froze. You've got to be kidding me, I said to myself.

This was far beyond asking for trouble. This was shtick too good for a 1920's Vaudeville act.

Luckily they responded with merely a, "Wow, what a coincidence," and left it at that.

The walk back to their hotel was flavored with fun stories, horrible accents, pictures on cell phones, and Adam relieving himself on the side of the street. As we said our goodbyes outside their hotel, the girls mentioned that they were flying back to Atlanta the next night.

"We should do lunch tomorrow," Christine said.
"Yeah, totally," Adam responded. You could here the slight cynicism if you listened carefully. "Give us a call, here's my cell."

Never expecting to hear from them again, Adam handed over the 10 digits which were his New York cell phone.

.08.

Adam's cell phone rang at 11:30am, waking us both. I rolled over and stuffed my face into my pillow. A loud, very amused laugh from the other room cackled forth, followed by a pause and a clearing of the throat. And then...

"'Ello, love." He spoke while I did my best to yank myself out of bed. "Do we still want to do lunch? No, that was just something we told you at the time hopin' you'd never call us again."

He allowed her to respond to his sarcasm while I made my way to the kitchen tap, along the way laughing hysterically at the situation and gesturing at Adam that he was a wanker who was going to hell. He carried on with her while I guzzled down half of New York's water supply.

"Course we'd love to go to lunch. But we'll have to do... um... One o'clock. Olive Garden. That work for you? Give us time to shower up and all that." A pause. "Yeah, of course we just got up. We were out till god awful hours of the morning, being held captive by two saucy minxes... from Georgia."

He said "Georgia" with a heavy southern American drawl. It was almost too good. I was worried. But then, I was no stranger to the sound of his real accent. "Why worry now?" I told myself.

By now the tap was running dry, so I made my way back to where Adam was and threw a dishrag at his face.

"Alright," he said, "we'll see you there."

Alright, I thought, just one more hour or so of this. Over a meal. Should be easy.

"Oh, hold on," Adam blurted out, "someone wants to say ''ello.'"

And with that, he held out the phone to me.

I could've killed him. But I didn't know the city well enough to know where to hide a body. I could've spoken in my regular voice and totally blown his cover. But I was hung over, and pasta from the Olive Garden sounded very good right about then. I grabbed the phone.

"'Ello," says I, "we doin' lunch, then?"
"Oy believe we ah." Again, with the accent. "Is that all-roit wiff you?"
"Totally." I'm glaring at Adam this entire time. "Alright, well we'll be seein' you in a tick, eh?"
"A tick it is."
"Alright, laters."
"Lay-uhs."
Click.
"Bastard." I throw the phone at him.
"What? This is as much you fault as it is mine," he shoots back, laughingly.
I laugh back. "You gave them your New York cell phone number, you idiot!"
"Don't worry, I've already thought that through."

His face bore that smirk of someone who thinks they are immensely clever. It's the smirk of the brave soul who decides to step forward and courageously lead the team through the jungle. The smirk that is the last thing you see on that person's face before he disappears into the tiger trap.

"I figure, if they ask," he continued, "I just tell them it's a phone one of my mates over here is letting me borrow for the duration of the shoot.""Oh," I said, a little stunned that for once he actually had a plan, "then I'm sure you've thought to take your name and lack of British accent off of your voice mail."
The smirk faded. Quickly.
"Shit."

As he dug around for his cell phone in a panic, I selected what I would wear to the OG that afternoon and marveled at the idea of Adam trying to pull off this stunt alone.

I chuckled.

.09.

Times Square, New York.

7th and Broadway. Tin Pan Alley. The Actor's Chapel. Duffy Square. TKTS. The Palace. Restaurant Row. Schubert Alley. The New Vic. Ochs Street. Rodger's & Hammerstein Row. The Imperial.

Crossroads of the World.

It unfolds before you like a real-time Hollywood Blockbuster. The lights. The sounds. The swearing. The buildings. The history. The street peddlers and merchants. The curbside artists. New York's Finest.

In no other city in America can you stand and feel... this.

And there we were. Two lonely young blokes standing outside the Olive Garden taking everything in and praying to the gods of cruel irony that some true Brit wouldn't decide to ask us for the time or some other such nonsense for the next hour and a half.

We petitioned long and hard. Adam produced a small stick of tobacco which he used as a burnt offering, testing the flavors and aromas himself so as not to upset the gods.

The ladies arrived, upset already since we did not procure a table ahead of time. How were we to know the rules of American dining etiquette?

We entered the Olive Garden through a revolving door and ascended two escalators before finally reaching a hostess and waiting section. While we waited we were introduced to, and chatted it up with, Sherri, the elder and married friend.

Before you could say "Bangers and Mash," we were seated. We all ordered, mainly salads and breadsticks with waters, with a few colas here and there, and several appetizers.

The conversation lulled into a dreary silence, which I chose to fill by fiddling around with napkins and such, until I realized that made me look quite nervous. I quickly claimed to be rather tired from the night before and that successfully set off a bit of conversation.

When the drinks came 'round, Shatarsky was quite taken with his Diet Coke, as it had a wedge of lemon in it. This set him off on a bit of a monologue, which killed an excellent slice of time, about how American's put lemons in and around everything in restaurants. It was lovely. I joined in about halfway through and we tag-teamed it like pros.

Then came something only Shatarsky would do. The lemon bit had just died a wonderful death, as all jokes must, with the last few faint chuckles still lingering around the back alleyways of the mind. And then, right in that moment when you draw that silent breath to close the door on one story or idea or thought or event and move on to the next, he spoke. In perfect seriousness.

"And Ice." He began to look at the ice in his glass as though it were mystical, examining it carefully with his straw. "Only in America do they put ice in your drinks. I've never seen anything like this."

The table froze. There wasn't a breath, a laugh, a snicker, a scoff. Nothing.

I froze.

There is one rule in Improv: Do not block. What this essentially means is, if someone says to you, "Hey, did you hear that Uncle Louie is comin'?" You don't say, "No, he's dead." Kinda kills the flow. Leaves you nowhere to go.

But what am I supposed to do with, "You can't get ice in your drink anywhere outside America"?

As I was approaching a suitable solution to this dilemma, Adam broke my concentration by setting down his drink with a hard thud, leaning back in the booth, and saying, "No. That's all nonsense. You can get ice anywhere."

The ladies laughed. I looked at him and smiled. It was one of my patented smiles. The one that says, You're a very, very funny man... don't ever do that to me again.

I think he got the message. But just to be sure I immediately began planning a way to get him back. Thankfully, my opportunity arose much sooner than I thought.

.10.

"So, I must tell you," Christine began, her attempted British dialect, ironically, worse, if possible, now that she was sober, "that when I first met you... chaps... I thought that you were completely full of shit, and that you probably lived right down the street."

I glanced at Adam and chuckled. It was a British chuckle. His eyes had that sharp edge to them that they usually did, especially when we were engaged, as we most often were, in such nonsense and tomfoolery. But there was also a hint of that panic that he had managed to keep fairly well hidden since those first several moments at the St. James. I knew if I was to get him, I had to act right then.

"Well, I've got to tell you," I began, "You're a very perceptive person. You're not too far off at all."

I glanced at Adam, and held a pause for as long as I could stomach it.

"We are completely full of shit, I'll give you that much."

Adam recovered in no time.

"Yeah," says he, "One out of two's not bad."

We all had a good laugh and before you knew it, the food had arrived. We began to gorge ourselves on the delicious breadsticks and various fried appetizers.

And then I caught the panic in his eyes. Deep. Worse than before. Worse even than the previous night at the bar. He motioned ever so slightly for me to lean over towards him. I did. He leaned in close to my ear, his lips almost touching me. He whispered something so low a bat wouldn't have been able to pick it up.

"What?" I whispered back.

He attempted again, only raising his volume slightly. I couldn't make it all out, but the pieces I got caused the panic to fill into my eyes, too, I'm sure. It swept through my body so that I went completely warm and numb all over at the same time.

I cast my gaze cautiously around the table so as not to seem conspicuous, and then I turned my head slightly to get a better view of the table behind us.

A tall woman wearing a straw colored hat and wire-rimmed glasses sat facing our direction. Across from her sat a shorter woman already working on a glass of blush wine. The tall lady was telling her friend, we shall assume, a story about an encounter she had earlier that day.

She spoke in the most beautiful British accent.

.11.

I shot Adam a look as if to say, I told you that you shouldn't have smoked away so much of the burnt offering. Now look what you've done!

He stared back at me with much less of the panic than I expected. That had all but melted away and in it's place was almost, you could say, amusement. Apparently Adam was on much better terms than I with the gods of cruel irony. It was as if he realized he had been caught with his hand inside the cookie jar, and instead of sheepishly cowering and begging for mercy he thrust his other hand in and ran off with double the booty.

Well, we had a good run at it, his face said. 'Had to end sometime, didn't it?
Yes, I thought, A good run. Now, just sit back and accept your fate. Walk the green mile with your head held high.

I was mentally preparing myself for what was to come, when Adam busts out laughing. Naturally, this draws a peculiar glance from the ladies. And me. With no regard to his volume or brazen accent he cried out, laughingly, "Ariel! Ariel!" Repeating the name of one of the blokes from last night.

"It's like Shakespeare. Who names their kid Ariel? He's a bloke, for cryin' out loud."
"I know," says I, having a good laugh and belting it just as loudly, "it's like that girlie mermaid thing. The cartoon."
"Like Shakespeare. Like the Tempest. Like... Mercutio. Horatio. Ariel!"
He laughed hysterically.
"Which one was bloody Ariel? I don't even know. I can't remember."
"I know. Who was he?"
"Was he the button lad?"

Oh, yes. We were going down in a blaze of fire that made the Hindenburg look like a sparkler.

The ladies were laughing right along with us, but my focus was behind us. I felt a disturbance in the force. I turned slightly. She was rising from her seat.

It was about to happen. The lever was about to be pulled; the axe about to fall. It was exhilarating.

Nothing happened.

I turned. Slowly.

She was walking toward the ladies room. As she disappeared behind the corner, our waitress appeared. Bringing our check. It was like our destruction and our salvation had just brushed against one another in an alternate dimension. And our salvation had one. And it was on it's way over to our table.

.12.

"Oh, the bill," says I.

Adam slid it over to his section of the table and opened it, revealing six small, individually wrapped Andes mints.

Now you, dear reader, have no doubt seen an Andes mint. No doubt you have also eaten one. I shall not take the time, then, to describe to you what one looks or tastes like. But I will remind you of something said many a time and oft forgot: Adam Shatarsky does not always think before he speaks.

But I will add this: I wouldn't have it any other way, because sometimes it is the funniest stuff you will ever hear.

The small black pad folded open revealing the six chocolate mints sitting neatly on our quaint little bill. Adam's eyes grew wide, and in the biggest, most excitable, overblown version of his dialect he blurted out:

"Fannie's your aunt, Bob's your uncle! We've got Chocolates!"

I lost it. All of it. Whatever it was, was lost. I shall probably never get it back.

The bill was paid, the goodbyes were said, the hugs were given. The ladies headed off in their direction, and we in ours.

I breathed a great sigh of relief. For me, the game was over.

For Adam... well... let me just put it this way...

To this day, and every day, he still receives emails from the lovely Christine.

Epilogue

There are things you can explain, and others you cannot. There are some stories that ascribe to reason, and others that defy it. There are things you do sometimes that you cannot explain. There are stories, such as this, that could only have happened in New York City.

And there are people, dear sweet people, like our own Christine and Debra, that you could only meet in New York City.