It was snowing flakes the size of silver dollars-a welcome respite
from the usual New York swirl of dirt, gum wrappers, and newspaper
shards. Standing on the sidewalk outside my apartment building, I stuck
out my tongue and waited.
A flake landed. I celebrated by striking my best landed-gentry pose. No
one noticed, despite my Irish tweed cardigan-like jacket purchased
several years earlier at the Shannon duty free shop in anticipation of
just such a moment. I was alone on the pavement-just the falling flakes
and I.
No matter. It was Sunday morning and the weekend was almost over. For
me that was good news. I was happy for the first time all week. On
Monday I could return to work and pretend that I'd had a great weekend
without having to face another one for five days. Kabuki takes many
forms. The Spillover Effect, I think it's called.
Off I strode with great purpose to buy a copy of the Sunday Times. It
was a dual ritual-striding purposefully and buying the Sunday
Times-litmus test of the true up-and-coming-titan-of-business. Never
let your mask down, little boy. No telling who you might run
into.
Lugging my Sunday Times back home I encountered a young man about my
age walking in the opposite direction. He was slender, mustachioed. He
wore a plaid lumberjack shirt and jeans-standard-issue seasonal attire
for the urbane cowboy of the mid-Seventies. We nodded at each other in
passing.
From behind me I heard him say: "Excuse me." I wasn't sure what to do.
Strangers do not speak to each other in New York City. Even if they are
both lugging a Sunday Times. Not normally, they don't.
I stopped and turned. He faced me. We started a conversion. Just some
idle chit chat about how nice Sunday in New York can be, where are you
from, how long have you lived here-that kind of thing. I told him the
story of my Irish tweed cardigan-like jacket. He seemed like a pleasant
enough sort. At least he paid attention. Everyone needs an
audience.
"I live nearby," he said. "Would you like to come over for some coffee?
We could work the crossword puzzle, if you want."
I was taken aback. This was my first random encounter with a friendly
person in New York City. I was suspicious. He could tell. He said, "I'm
just around the corner. You can leave anytime you want, of course." I
was still suspicious, but it was Sunday and I was happy so I said, "Ok,
let's go." Besides, I was bigger than he was, if worse came to
worse.
Shoulder to shoulder we strode purposefully, lugging our respective
Sunday Times. In short order we arrived at a brownstone by the water-a
prime location in Brooklyn Heights. His studio apartment was a third
floor walk-up. It was small, but one tiny window faced the river. You
could see Manhattan. The studio was scruffy, but a much nicer location
than my basement studio with its eye-level view of the sidewalk. He
heated some water and made two mugs of instant coffee. He apologized
for the gaucheness of instant coffee, citing a broken espresso
maker.
"No problem," I said, as he sat on the couch. He placed his mug on the
coffee table. I stood by the kitchen area counter. Suspicion returned.
He could tell. "Have a seat on the couch," he said. "Sorry there's no
place else to sit in here."
"That's ok," I said. "I'm fine standing." He was friendly enough,
making small talk, but the tension was growing. He could tell.
"Would you like some brandy?" he asked. At first I demurred. I rarely
drank. He urged. Finally I agreed: "Ok, but just a little. I don't
drink much."
He poured out two very large snifters of Remy Martin.
I took a tiny sip of the brandy. Or was it cognac? Brandy? Cognac? I
should have known the difference-been able to deliver a two minute
lecture on the precise difference-what makes brandy brandy and cognac
cognac. There was a difference, but I struggled to remember what it
was. Then, whatever I'd just sipped hit the back of my tongue, trickled
down my throat, and took up residence in my stomach. It tasted raw.
Brandy always tastes raw. It always burns, or at least it should. If it
doesn't, you've had too much. It sent mixed messages to my brain. I
don't recall what they were, but I know they were mixed. Maybe it was
cognac.
He remained seated on the couch.
"This couch is also a bed, you know," he said.
"Yeah, I know. I've got one myself," I said.
He took a big gulp of brandy and smacked the snifter down on the coffee
table.
"So," he said. "Which way do you want it? I can give it or take it-up
the ass, sucking, you name it."
The suggestion hit me hard. I wasn't sure I'd heard him correctly.
Maybe I hadn't. He probably said more than that, but I was dazed and
starting to sweat. It'd come out of nowhere-seemed to anyway. I almost
laughed out loud. The thought crossed my mind to relieve the tension by
saying: "I guess that means the crossword puzzle is out of the
question."
By then he'd already shoved the coffee table out of the way, thrown the
cushions on the floor, and yanked on a chain which caused the first
pair of legs of the foldout bed to swing out and hit the floor with a
metallic shiver. He had obviously practiced this routine.
I put my brandy on the counter and said, "I have to go." He looked at
me, non-plussed. Then a sickly light crept across his face.
"Oh," he said, embarrassed and crestfallen. "I thought?."
"I'm going," I said, shoving my Sunday Times under my left arm.
"I'm sorry," he said, moving away from the half-unfolded bed. "I
thought you knew the score." The swagger of conquest had already
drained from his expression.
"Are you sure you won't change your mind?" he pleaded
half-heartedly.
"Sorry. It was just a misunderstanding," I said and headed for the
door.
"I'm really sorry," he said. "I thought?."
"Don't worry about it. Good bye," I said. I closed the door and
purposefully descended the stairs.
Outside, the snow had already stopped. I took a deep breath. The tiny
sip of brandy still burned my throat. My stomach felt queasy. I shook
my head, hoping the whole experience would fall out of my ears. It
didn't, at least not right away.
I started walking. Distance improved my mood. I only lived three blocks
away. One block from home my spirits rose. "Look on the bright side," I
told myself. "At least someone wanted me-someone thought I was
attractive enough to?. Well, it's a start-definitely a step in the
right direction. Maybe someday I'll find a girlfriend after all."
I never saw him again. Probably just as well.
