A place to talk about New York on Farcaster

✨ STORY TIME ✨

It's 11:23 AM. I'm on a Citi Bike, whipping through the mean and cobbled streets of SoHo, bumps galore. I pull into the Mott Street station as I gracefully dismount and dock my trusty steed.

But something is awry. I reach into my pocket to grab my cellular and... there's nothing there! 😱

/new-york by day 🗽 /latenightcrew by night :) Fan of eating tacos and bringing people together, often at the same time 🌮

"Damnit," I think to myself "the one time I put my phone in my jacket instead of my jeans." I start sprinting along my path, hoping that it fell out somewhere towards the end and I can save it from becoming SoHo roadkill. I run almost all the way back, scanning the streets like a hawk, but it's nowhere to be seen.

I call my girlfriend and ask her to check Find My. My heart goes on a rollercoaster as she tells me that she can see my phone... but it's in the Lower East Side and moving away.

Shit, someone took it. How can I possibly chase down a moving target without being able to see live location updates? I ask her to call them.

To my surprise, my girlfriend calls back a few minutes later and says "Okay, they're at Canary Club but they might leave soon so go now, you're looking for Clara."

Feeling like Tom Cruise with a new mission, I quickly borrow someone's phone and look up the address, carefully mapping out each turn of the journey ahead.

I run to the nearest bike rack and select a worthy e-stallion: battery brimming, tires pumped, its white coat shimmering in the morning light.

I pedal furiously through the streets, playing them back over and over again in my head: start on Spring, right on Bowery, left on Grand, left on Forsyth, right on Broome.

The next 236 seconds are a blur as I Tour-de-France my way across town, not stopping to sign any autographs. Before I know it I'm staring at a wood-framed glass door with an indiscernible, illuminatiesque red symbol in the middle — this is it.

I take a moment to catch my breath, hoping that I've made it in time.

I cautiously enter the well-adorned establishment, paying close attention to my surroundings. I'm met by an apprehensive waiter who, after I attempt to explain my situation, seems confused and somewhat bored and withdraws himself to the kitchen.

"Agent, you're on your own."

My eyes dart from table to table, hoping to catch a wink, a smile, a nod, a glance — any minuscule confirmation that I'm in the right place and don't just look like a rogue bounty hunter in this moment.

But this is New York, I remember, where people stay in their lane and don't smile at strangers.

I spot a table in the back corner: a group of four young men and women seemingly in good spirits, enjoying some friendly banter and benedicts. The type of folks who would find a lost phone on the street and graciously return it, perhaps?

Drawn to their energy, I begin my approach.

"Cla... Clara?" I stammer out in their general direction.

One of the women turns to me with a smile.

"You must be Jonathan, and *this* must be yours!"

A wave of relief visibly washes over me as we all share a laugh. I thank her profusely for her kindness before letting the group get back to their brunch.

I slip out of the restaurant and back into the bustling city, reflecting on the madness that unfolded over the past thirty minutes. I am struck by the kindness of a stranger and shocked to be holding my phone once again.

But this is New York, I remember, where people keep their heads down and look out for each other.

I frantically look around, racking my brain for what to do next, unwilling to admit defeat. I try to go to the nearest store, Chanel, but there's an unhelpful security guard and a line. I dash to the next block and find a Sunglass Hut that, after some out-of-breath explanation, is willing to let me borrow their phone.