In a New York Minute.

Here is a paper I wrote for my advanced reporting class. It wears me out just thinking about it.
Enjoy!

“Well, do you want to jump out and run like hell? It’s time to make a decision, what do you want to do?” The weight of the question filled the yellow taxicab, nearly suffocating all of its occupants. After some hesitation, I blurted out my answer. He immediately flung the door open while the taxi continued it’s forward motion, not wanting to waste another second. I heard the harsh, foreign tongue of the driver, but his voice abruptly cut off with the slam of the door. We left them in the cab to deal with his wrath, and broke out into a staggering sprint.
I had seen movie stars leap in strides of elegance while wearing their thousand dollar stilettos, and I attempted to emulate their gazelle-like movements. Failing miserably after a measly half a block, I skidded to a painful halt, took off my shoes, and continued towards the beacon of hope flooding from the Eugene O’Neill Theatre. Sprinting, running, sprinting, running, slowing, jogging, slowing, walking…breathing, coughing, questioning. My head spun as I attempted to orient myself. Just make it, just get there…the thoughts ran through my head much quicker than my feet ran on the ground. Get there, get there, get there.
Just like most stories, it all started off as an innocent mistake. After a long day of shopping, eating, and more shopping, we slugged back to our hotel room to get ready for the show. Meghan, my best friend of 20 years, Dylan, my brother by choice, Andrew, my brother by blood, and I all put on our newly purchased black and white ensembles to attend the recent Tony Award winning musical Spring Awakening. My family came to New York City for sticky mid-July week as a summer vacation, and graciously my friends merited invitations to come along. After securing every eyelash, zipping every dress, and tying every shoe, we began to walk towards the Waldorf Astoria Hotel on Fifth Avenue. I promised my friend from college a visit before the curtain rose at eight o’clock sharp, thinking time would be of excess. The ivory envelope reading “Asebrook” sat securely behind the box office window. We all moved according to plan, intending to make the brief detour in route of our journey towards the Great White Way. Andrew’s watch read 7 p.m.
“If it wasn’t for all your talking we wouldn’t be late,” my brother grumbled sternly as we exited the hotel doors, seemingly along with every other guest in the hotel. We glanced at the crowded avenue and knew we would not make it walking. The line to get a taxi resembled the line at the Bureau of Motor Vehicles on lunch hour, unending and winding around the sidewalk. Trying to be optimistic, “I doubt it’ll take that long. The cabs have to keep coming…” Meghan’s voice trailed off as she thought about her lack of knowledge on the subject. If she missed her first Broadway show, she knew her disappointment would be catastrophic. The buildup had lingered over the vacation thus far, and a few blocks could not stop her. Then she heard a faint vibrating sound, and looked around. The nervous emotions were painted across Maddie’s face, and she hated to interrupt her thought process because she would be the one to figure this out. But she piped up, “Maddie, I think your phone is ringing.” The phone read 7:43 p.m.
“Dad, what?” I answered the phone in the frustrated tone my father has been unhappy with since my elementary, sassy years. “They can’t find your tickets,” he said quickly. “You need to be there right now.” I answered snappily something to the affect of how that obviously posed a problem, seeing as only one person in the line successful found a cab. He continued, raising his voice slightly as it quickened, “Where are you? If you guys don’t get there at least five minutes before, you won’t get in and I will have wasted hundreds of dollars. So you better figure this out.” He abruptly hung up. Just like my high school nights when he paced around the kitchen, wondering about my whereabouts, he called my cell phone 13 more times to yell at us. The clock flashed 7:49 p.m.
After aging roughly 73 years, we earned the front spot in the waiting line and got into a cab. We moved about 30 feet, until we approached gridlock traffic. Precious moments ticked by as I ignored the constant vibration of my phone. We continued to sit the parking lot Midtown Manhattan became, and my hope flooded out the sunroof. “We’re not going to make it,” I muttered out loud to whoever would listen. “We don’t have the tickets. We are supposed to be there no later than now. It’s over.” This was all my fault, I thought, as we sat merely two blocks away from our destination. My pessimism was not well received. 7:55 p.m. read the dashboard’s clock.
Dylan had an idea. As a musical theatre major at Boston Conservatory, he knew all about this show. He watched the Tony Award weeks before, and saw kids his own age perform the famous number. He came to New York to see this show. “We can sit in this cab and bitch, or we can do something about it,” he firmly said. “Well, do you want to jump out and run like hell? It’s time to make a decision, what do you want to do?” After a split second, he told Meghan and Andrew to stay in the cab. Maddie followed him out the door, as the cabbie angrily screamed at them both. “I can run faster than you…” the words breathlessly escaped his mouth. “Where am I going?” Dad said 50th street, so that’s where I told him to go. He ran off before I could say another word. I began to sprint through Times Square after him, running towards the bright lights and Target advertisements of smiling people who did not have to sprint to get anywhere. The giant clock read 7:57 p.m.
Removing my main obstacle off my feet, I continued to attempt to run. I dodged many families and couples, including an old woman with her rocker. I nearly leaped over a tiny white dog on his leash, lazily trailing behind his owner. I stepped in garbage, I waited at a stoplight, and I looked around to find I made it to 50th street. No theater. No signs. No Spring Awakening. My spirit sunk into the sewer grate below me. I whipped out my phone and headed south, calling anyone that would answer. My parents went to a different theater altogether, leaving me to truly figure this out on my own. No one answered. I circled to the next block, now at a fast walk with an invisible knife dug into my left side, and saw the faces of Jonathan Groff and Lea Michele on the marquee. I made it. I glanced quickly at my phone, 7:59 p.m.
I sprinted my last few steps, as the stragglers wandered through the glass doors. Through the crowd, I recognized the raving red hair of my best friend. Andrew and Meghan stood there, looking frantically for the familiar faces of the rest of their party. Andrew knew he should have run instead of his sister. He had been attending football practice every day since June, and definitely could get there quicker than her smoker lungs could. Finally, he saw the sweaty face of ruined makeup run through the crowd and enter the theater doors, but not before she screeched, “MOVE!” It was 8 p.m. exactly.
I ran up to the window, instantly folding in half while hanging onto the ledge. “Asebrook…” barely escaped through exasperated breaths. He handed me the tiny, ivory envelope after saying something like “under the wrong name.” Meghan and Andrew stood behind me, and I gave them their tickets after instructing them to go inside. Only one problem remained. Where’s Dylan?
I ran outside, ignoring the theater attendant telling me the show was starting, only to notice a very slow moving Dylan down the street. He bent down, wheezing while trying to adjust himself. He heard her yelling at him to hurry, and he tried his damnedest. He grabbed the ticket and made it into the theater before his eyesight completely blacked out. After a few moments of composure, he moved down to the second row where Meghan, Maddie, and Andrew sat mere inches from the stage. After assuring the concerned mother next to him he was alright, the lights went down and the curtain rose, revealing five young girls who began to sing. We made it.
Hours later, after endlessly scrubbing at my dirt black feet, I knew I would never run in stilettos, go barefoot in a big city, or leave less than 30 minutes before a show ever again. I have been at least 15 minutes early to every show I have seen since.