An Ode of Sorts to Fleet Week

by Jasmine Moy

They called us the “Pied Pipers” and, in retrospect, it was one of the few times I can think of where the vision in my head — of sauntering down Gotham blocks with lines men in uniform following me all over town — was executed almost just as I’d planned. It probably didn’t hurt that we were young and brazen and twitterpated with spring fever.

I was knee-deep in my second year of law school. A typical virgo: uptight, controlling, a perfectionist. I had a new roommate, an impulsive British redhead with a flair for the dramatic, who came to New York under the spell of Sex and the City when it was fashionable to enjoy the show.

“It’s Fleet Week! Let’s go catch us some sailors!” she cooed. Her enthusiasm was infectious. “Where will they all be? Times Square?”

It was our “secret single behavior” to head to Olive Garden for soup, salad and breadsticks, so it seemed like an ideal night to grab a table by the windows where we’d have a prime view of of the telltale perfectly white and beige circles that marked the tops of their hats, to strategize what intersections were particularly soldier-heavy.

Over pasta fagioli, we figured we’d just tell everyone we saw that we knew of a great bar and to meet us there later. We picked an Irish pub on Restaurant Row where we liked to go listen to a guy named George, a dead-ringer for Paul Giammatti, sing rock classics with his guitar several nights a week and where the bartenders were jolly and generous with buybacks.

We underestimated how easy our task would be. All the servicemen and women were sweetly (and sometimes alarmingly) young. Wide-eyed and desperate for any sense of direction, they were lemmings. Each and every one looking for a New York experience.

As my brother was a marine, I was keen on picking out the bulldogs and hollering a hearty, “Semper Fi!” in their direction. All it took was a “hello” and a mention of “bar” and they were putty in our hands. After about 30 minutes of looping up and down Broadway sending folks to 46th street, we headed to the pub and found no less than 50 service members there, all of whom had been sent by us, hence the talk of pied piping. There was a moment when several of them felt betrayed by the fact that we’d herded so many others there as well, but betrayal was replaced by joviality. And pints. Lots and lots of pints. Because the thing about fleet week is that every place a member of our armed forces goes, she or he gets thanked. If that thanking is taking place in a bar, a beer arrives shortly thereafter. I wouldn’t be surprised if more beers get bought for strangers over the course of those 5 days than over the course of the rest of the year.

My roommate and I ended up sitting with Jason, navy guy from Florida, and Sean, a bushy-tailed blond from what he said was a 200-person town in rural Arkansas. Among the things that Sean had seen that day for the first time EVER were bagels and a blind person. It’s the kind of thing that’s hard to believe until you hear his friend swear to God that Sean pointed to someone’s walking stick and mention that it was a strange-looking metal detector. And if you think about it, if someone comes from a small town and heads straight into the navy, it’s the kind of thing you’d only know about if you saw it on TV. And besides Richard Pryor’s stint in See No Evil, Hear No Evil, I couldn’t think of a single other blind person being featured in pop culture at the time.

And then WHAM! They’re staring at more neon lights and possibly taller buildings than they’ve ever seen. Certainly more people. They’ve got parades to march in and tickets to baseball games and live tapings for every show in town. From a bagel-less existence, to one where you’re rubbing elbows with Kelly Ripa and trying to navigate the NYC subway (on which they get to ride for free, and for whom you can throw open emergency gates with abandon to let them in, when booth agents aren’t around, guilt-free), New York becomes enthralling.

Though we joked about reeling in sailors, my roommate and I didn’t actually have any intention of taking any home, but when Jason and Sean said they were going to miss their curfew, we graciously agreed to let them sleep on our couch. I somewhat less-graciously asked them for a couple favors (changing the lightbulb I couldn’t reach, and having them take out a dead potted plant that had been to heavy for me to lift). My roommate and I fell asleep while texting each other in our respective rooms, about what we’d do if either of them tried to pull any funny business. They did not.

We awoke to an offer of a tour of their ship docked in Staten Island, which is as good a reason as any for a hot dog breakfast on the city’s finest free ferry. They were even gentlemanly enough to tell us both we should change into pants because all the steps/ladders on the ship would be inhospitable for those wearing skirts and dresses. We took hokey photos pretending to steer, got brought into the men’s bunks so our guides could show off their haul (a reminder that we weren’t the only ones fishing the night before), and finished the afternoon with a tall boy back on the ferry into Manhattan.

All of which is to say that even if my Fleet Weeks in recent memory haven’t been equally as enchanting (I just keep getting older, and all the men and women coming in are still shockingly young; that debauchery now belongs to the under-30 set and so I’ve passed the torch), I can’t really imagine the city without it. Although I argue that a New York bagel right out of the oven can actually be life-altering for anyone in our military who has never had one, New York is undoubtedly a lesser place for not having the opportunity to show some hospitality — to look the members of our armed forces in the eyes, shake their hands and treat to a pilsner — those who have volunteered to put their lives on the line in order to serve our country.

The sequestration is really crimping Jasmine Moy’s style.

Photo via Flickr/usnavy