A long time ago, I took a writing class. One of those in-a-church-basement things that the Gotham Writer’s Workshop puts on in midtown. About a month ago I was going through old teaching materials and found my notebook from the class.
This was the first in-class exercise. Our directions were to write a story about a character named Bibber.
During college I often got lost in Manhattan.
Whenever we all went out to dinner or a show, I had to just follow the crowd — they always seemed to know which way to turn when they came out of the subway or from which sidewalk to hail the taxi — I often took the uptown train instead of the down and always had to ask for directions. Since graduation it’s gotten worse and I never thought I would meet anyone with a worse sense of direction than I was cursed with.
Then, about a year ago, I met Bibber.
He was on the stairs in front of me leaving the 181st Street station and, at the top, he asked me which way it was to Amsterdam. I smiled and pointed then watched him run off… in the opposite direction. I called after him, but he didn’t hear me and hurried around a corner. I followed him and, when I turned the end of the block, there was… with a knife.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m Bibber. And you’re going to give me your wallet.”
You were all right: Mom, Ryan, the Young Republicans… here I was, my first, sudden experience in The Real World and — already — my degree in English wasn’t helping at all.
Now I’ve dropped English Literature as a career. Now I’m a beat cop. And you know what I do most of the day?
I give directions.