A New York Minute

Rushing to the city, only to catch the very end of St. Patrick’s Day parade. Being none the wiser that my friend Jessica and I were being swept away from our parents by the crowd.  

Sitting on the sunny steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and jumping from one concrete step to another.

My parents buying a knock-off Transformer from a guy with a mustache on the street corner and me playing with it while I was sitting in the floor of the theater not watching the musical CATS.

The knock-off Transformer breaking, and me understanding that the show CATS was not, in fact, as interesting as actual cats.

Coming back decades later and seeing a Death of Salesman, and then realizing I was sitting in the exact same theater where I broke that fake Transformer 40 years before.

Joyfully eating at Juniors after the show: Black coffee and excellent cheesecake after a sloppy, lukewarm pastrami sandwich. Knowing it was even MORE New York that way, since we were doing the most touristy thing and getting the most touristy food.

Knowing how to ignore the airport Gypsy cab drivers and guys with fliers on the street.

Knowing to take the Staten Island Ferry to see the Statue of Liberty for free.
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Knowing that the R train will go right to 49th street.

Knowing all that thanks to ChatGPT.
 
Seeing a homeless lady in the bathroom pretending she was waiting in line and being impressed with the cleverness of that.

Peeking through the windows of the 9/11 museum to see a hunk of the rubble from the one of the Towers. Examining the choice to honor people who died in falling buildings with water that falls and falls.

Eating at the slightly trendy place in Chinatown (half-regretting missing the hole in the wall noodle place with the line out the door). Sitting in the park in the sunshine listening to two old Chinese men play traditional instruments and a warbling old lady sing in Mandarin. Watching the two guys behind them share a joint.

Meeting the cab driver with an MBA and a daughter who is interning in the summers with Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor.
 
Walking the cemetery at Trinity Church. Telling the janitor who asked if we were there to see Alexander Hamilton, “Hell no. We’re here to see Eliza.” Him laughing and saying that he would tell them we stopped by.

Sitting in that same churchyard listening to the noon time bells ring down Wall Street and off the headstones.

Walking 20 blocks for the “best bagels.” Acknowledging fully that they were, in fact, the best goddamn bagels, and the best goddamn coffee, too.

Scratching the butt of a stranger’s pug dog outside of an Italian bakery. Remembering the taste of the sprinkles that come on a sugar cookie if the bakery is doing things right.

Springing for tickets to the Daniel Radcliffe one man show where he names brilliant things about the world in an attempt to cheer up his depressed mother. Trying not to reach out and touch his fuzzy grey sweater as he runs through the audience. Appreciating the play's solid use of a disco ball.

Discussing mental health norms and manhood in the 1960s versus the 2020s over three strong gin martinis and a plate of hummus in a trendy theater district restaurant.

Going ice skating at Rockefeller Center, perhaps under the influence of those gin martinis.
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Spending a day at the Metropolitan Museum of Art hungover.

Blowing off our reservations at the historic steakhouse in favor of pajamas and room service.

Eating cheesecake in bed.

Sitting in the lobby of a hotel overlooking Times Square with a laptop, writing.

​Feeling cool.
Feeling like a pretentious douche.
Feeling like a writer.

A writer in New York.