Living with Legends

Two big, fat cops burst in the front door of the Chelsea, guns drawn.  They glance at Susan and I, sitting there in the lobby, but stride on past.   “Is this 222 West 21^st?!” the bigger of the cops calls out as they approach the front desk. 

            “No!” the shocked desk clerk replies. 

            “See, I told you,” the smaller cop says as they both re-holster their weapons. 

            “I thought for sure this was it,” the bigger one says to his partner. 

            “I told you it wasn’t,” the smaller cop reiterates.  Slightly embarrassed, he has already turned to leave. 

            The bigger one lingers at the desk.  “Are you sure this is not 222 West 21^st?” he asks the clerk again. 

            “Uh, yeah, I’m pretty sure,” the desk clerk says. 

            “Come on, lets get out of here!” the smaller one calls back.  Out on the street they get in their squad car, turn on the red lights and roar off into the night.

            I guess something like this is what happens when they blow away somebody’s granny in a botched drug raid.

            The scary thing is, they’re cops, so they’re supposed to know where they are, right?  This sounds even worse if you know New York, since 23^rd Street is a big, major cross-street.  It looks nothing like 21^st Street, which this far west is a quiet residential street, and nothing like any other street in the area, actually.

            OK, so their guns weren’t really drawn, but that makes for a much more dramatic story, don’t you think?  The next day we went around the block to see what was at 222 West 21^st, and it was—a police station!

            Sorry, kidding once again.  It was just a non-descript apartment building, without a lobby or a doorman, though it did have some ornate stone wreaths over the door.  It was about as similar to the Chelsea as 21^st Street is to 23^rd.  (Ed Hamilton)