For a few years, when I was covering the BlackRock account for Donnelley, I would be in NYC for two weeks in February for a client in-house session. I would work various hours, usually the afternoon to late at night. The team would consist of the NY CSRs, one or two NY typesetters and usually a CSR from another site. This particular year the lead NYC CSR was Bill, affectionately known as Lunny, a derivative of his last name. The imported CSR was Jason from Newport Beach California. Up the street from our office in Lower Manhattan was a dive bar called the Dakota Roadhouse. Bars being open to 4 am in NYC, Jason, Bill and I often found ourselves there for a few drinks after work.
The young lady bartending these evenings, was very friendly and attractive. Another plus, according to her, house policy was every third beer was on the house. My brand of choice for those weeks was Stella Artois, at that time, new to the States and not yet available in Lancaster.
The last night, around midnight, the project wrapped, Jason and my work was done. Lunny had a few odds and ends to take care of, saying he would meet us at Dakota’s in a half hour. Lunny arrived and told us his car was out front and that he would take us back to our hotel, which was four blocks away, along the Hudson. If you have every been in NYC during the winter, when the wind is blowing off the Hudson, you know how cold it is, funneling through the buildings. This offer of a ride was greatly appreciated, especially by the Southern Californian, Jason. These temperatures and winds were something he was not at all used to. In addition, there had been a significant snow fall two days earlier, leaving varying amounts of snow everywhere.
After almost four hours of pretty steady drinking and good times we headed for Lunny’s vehicle. I in the front seat, Jason in the rear, we pulled out, with me starting to nod off. Two blocks later, at a red light, Lunny exclaims, “Damsels in distress gentlemen, we have damsels in distress.” I swear, his exact words. Looking up I see a Mercedes sedan parked at the corner, large snow mound in front, hood in the air. Standing next to the Benz were three, well dressed and from what I can tell, attractive young women.
Lunny pulls over and we pile out of the car, rather unsteady slipping in the snow as we approach the stricken women. We ask, what are you doing out here at this time of night. They answered we just got done working, “Really we reply, so did we, where do you work?” Thinking, perhaps, that they also worked in the financial sector that is centered in the area. This would give us some sort of instant credibility with these, as we can now see, very attractive ladies. They pointed down the block and told us, “We work at the Pussy Cat Club“. As the name implies, it was a “gentleman’s club“.
Well this changed the dynamics instantly. It seems they came out from work and the car did not start. As fate would have it, Lunny had jumper cables in his trunk and we quickly got their Mercedes started. Hugs and thanks followed, with them asking if they could take us to breakfast. A microsecond later we accepted this gracious offer. At this point, I offered the fact that I was the only one among Jason, Lunny and I, that was single. Jason quickly looks at me a says. “Oh no, you’re not playing that card.”
So we proceed to follow them uptown on some minor, still snow covered streets. If my life depended on it, I could not find this bistro, the street remained unplowed and the area was devoid of any life, save for the bistro on the corner well lit and open.
Entering like a hurricane, loud, laughing with the ladies draped on our arms. We were greeted by a number of, I can only describe as Eastern European types, all men, all closely cut hair, if not fully shaved. Dressed, almost exclusively in black turtlenecks and dark sport coats. The thought, Russian mob, flashed through my mind. Though they all stared at us with their steely eyes, nothing was said as we were led to a table. We ordered, I got some sort of onion tart, which was good, but later prove to be an unfortunate source. The company was jovial and very appreciative of our earlier help. VERY appreciative. At one point Jason turns to me and says’ “She’s licking my face.” I really had no answer or comment for that.
Around six thirty, in an apparent moment of clarity, Lunny exclaims. “Oh my God, my wife needs this car to go to work at seven.” Now Lunny lived on Long Island, so even with my limited knowledge, it didn’t seem as that timetable was going to be met. Into the car we go, luckily it was a Saturday morning so Lunny had no problem racing back down Broadway at 70 miles an hour,. Dropping Jason and myself at our hotel, with us wishing him Godspeed and good luck, off he went,
Jason and I parted ways, both leaving for home later that day. Not so much later in my case, my train ticket was for 10 am. After a quick drive on the porcelain bus, (I mentioned the onion tart was an unfortunate choice), and a shower, I got a cab and headed to Pennn Station.
I slept the entire train ride, luckily the conductor woke me when we got to Lancaster. That evening I had tickets with a friend to see, Guy Clark, Joe Ely, Lyle Lovett and John Hiatt in concert. I rallied and managed to enjoy the concert.
Months later I stumbled across a show called the “Date Bus“. The premise was 3 or 4 girls and one man would be driven around NYC, in a bus, stopping at different spots where he and one of the girls would have a speed type date. At the end of the show he would choose one, for prizes or whatever. Absent mindedly watching this show, low and behold, there was one of our damsels, Heather, originally from Seaford DE. She did not win.
Chuck's Stories 