When Fools Russian

My friend The Photographer and I were walking down Ninth Avenue in SoPA (South of Port Authority) to get dinner at Market Café. Out of the blue, around 39th street, we were stopped. He was a young guy with a cute face and what looked like a nice body.

“Excuse me guys,” he said, with what sounded vaguely like a Russian accent, even though he looked more Israeli, “Can I ask you question?”

We waited, half expecting a plea for money. After all, it was SoPA.

“Can you tell me – where is gay bar?”

I was uncharacteristically speechless. Really? Just like that, no hesitation, or anything?

Photog recovered first, but not really. “He would know,” he said, gesturing toward me. Sell out.

The truth is, I know the Hells Kitchen gay bars in my sleep. I can name them north to south, alphabetically or by drag queen headliner. I was, for some reason, dumbfounded. “Uhhh... Well, there are lots in Hells Kitchen,” I blurted, vaguely gesturing north.

“I need magazine, yes?”

“Uh, yes!” I said. “HX, or Next. You can find them at any bar. The closest one is ... uh...”

Finally, Photog broke in “Ritz?”

“Yes!” I exclaimed. “Ritz.” In actuality, I was skipping over HK, but that was technically a restaurant, and only a gay dance party on the weekends. And also skipping over Cleo’s, technically called Ninth Avenue Saloon, and always called tragic. “Ritz is on 46th street,” I went on, anxious to recover. “This is 38. Just keep walking up Ninth until 46, and make a right. It says “Ritz” with a blue awning.”

“Forty-six,” he repeated in his ambiguously Russian, sexier-by-the-minute accent. “I see rainbow flag?”

“Uh, no...” I stammered yet again, “No rainbow flag...”

Photog jumped in with “It’s decorated like a ship!” and made gestures with his hands like he was helming a pirate vessel.

I struggled to say something else, but nothing came. What was wrong with me? Where were the obvious lines that should have flown out of my mouth: What’s your name? Where are you from? How long are you in town? And of course: Gay bars are all dead on a Monday, but my apartment is alive and well!

With his typical ambiguous-Russian directness, he took his leave. “Thanks guys,” he said, and headed north.

We were silent for a moment, and then Photog blurted, “What was that?!”

“I have no idea. But I suddenly need some vodka.”