Corner of Margarita between Booze and Sauced
Then I realized something: I never give the correct directions when I am sober.
Usually, I'm trudging up the steps from the train around 7 p.m. sober as a judge, in my usual routine, thinking things about work like, "Why, God, hast thou smote me so?" so when some 21-year-old blonde forces me out of my reverie by saying something abrupt like, "Excuse me. Where's Madison?" I say, "Uhhhhhhh. Uhhmmmmm," and then, puzzled, I stare at the intersection next to me, almost as if I've licked my index finger and have raised it straight upward to see which way the wind's a-blowin'.
One time, I said, "This is Madison." The young lady looked at me, and then she looked at the street, pointed to the telltale grassy median, and said, "This is Park." I muttered something about "long day" and "ask someone else," and then I tried to pretend the incident had never happened.
I should set up some sort of a directions booth in Midtown around 1 a.m. on a Saturday and charge for my stellar map services. Payment in booze, of course.