January 19, 2005
We exchanged a few moments of nervous laughter and broken glances before I lunged at him with open arms. A generous embrace always breaks the ice and since it was our first official meeting, I did not reprimand him for the 'one armed hug' that would, under more familiar circumstances, disappoint me. I pulled back, noting the wisps of dirty blonde hair, suffused with gentle tones of red, that fell around his penetrating blue eyes. Those clear blue orbs seemed so animated, darting back and forth, that I was often surprised once they rested upon my face. I would unconsciously pause, drawn in, until his voice brought me back to reality."You are tall."
We soon spilled out onto the streets of Manhattan. My breath was caught within my chest and my head simply swirled in wide-eyed wonder. Building after building darted high into the evening sky, caressing the dull gray clouds with outstretched circles of brilliant light. Below each proud and stoic edifice were the erratic whirs and blaring horns of yellow taxi cabs that seemed to dart and dance about each other; some slowing for the lifted hands of pedestrians, some speeding by with the imparted haste of their enclosed customers. John disappeared through a door to a corner shop where I recall taking my first real breath.
My eyes fell upon the gentleman to my left behind a long counter. He was tall and lean, standing casually as though taking a rest against a giant oak tree in the midst of a warm summer's day and, from shoulder to toe, clad in a perfect fitting salmon colored dress suit. The hair atop his head was sculpted into a stiff crest which bent back from his brow as though it were formed from the breeze he faced while in repose beneath that massive oak; or so I dared to imagine. He hardly cast a casual glance upon our entrance before I complimented him on choice of his attire.
"Love the suit!"
"Why, thank you," he replied in a throaty, casual tone.
I turned my attention to the smoke shop that we now stood in the middle of and looked about the walls filled with cigarettes and cigars. I bent my head toward the second floor which kept a number of easy chairs and perhaps a walk-in humidor behind a long, wooden railing that surrounded the whole. A great puff of smoke rose high against the ceiling as another patron smiled down at me from up above. My focus barely regained to my eye level dwellings and there was the salmon suited man, taking deep, dramatic strides in front of us as though he were resting each footfall on air and grinning with each pronounced progression. His ballet of a walk found him behind another counter, parallel to the one in which we first saw him.
John explained to me the difference between the prices of cigarettes at such a smoke shop and convenience stores and thus made his selection from the myriad of brands that lined the walls. The salmon suited gentleman produced John's request with a swift reach and a causal flick of the wrist, inquiring as to whether or not he would care to partake in one at present. John nodded his head, letting his eyes shimmer from the man behind the counter and back onto me, announcing that I might very well appreciate the quality of this purchase. Indeed, although the name escapes me, these were quite an unexpected treat. We thanked the salmon suited man and made our way toward the exit, all the while wishing my camera was in hand.
John took great pride in presenting to me the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue. The beautiful architecture of the bold columns and stone statues twirled at my heart strings and beckoned my entry, but we walked on, passing the cold steps steps as I arched my head to the right of the sidewalk, wondering at the immense riches held inside. I resolved myself to looping my arm through John's, that I might have a better opportunity to focus my attention on the great beauty surrounding me without stumbling, as we came upon the Empire State Building. John pulled me closer to the edge of the sidewalk toward the street and entreated me to look up. I nearly fell back, stunned by the sheer enormity of such a monument, as I stared for several minutes, the entire upper half set aglow against the evening sky.
This was New York. Wide and tall, loud and bustling, proud and magnificent and I really had to go to the bathroom.
I could not wait for the length of our walk to his usual hangout and thus we entered an establishment where one of his friends works, save for this particular night, and sat down for a couple of drinks. I danced down the spiral stairs to the rest rooms, marked 'Men,' 'Women,' and 'Unisex,' while John ordered the refreshments. When I returned, I unconsciously pulled out my cigarettes and was quickly shot down by my dear companion - sadly reminded that I was unable to smoke anywhere in New York. I whimpered and whined, as only I can do best, and resolved to be content despite the lack of nicotine. John more than made up for this disparaging fact by entertaining me with his abundance of humorous witticism and ever smiling face.
He corrected me in my gratuity and we continued on; I dizzy with his outstanding tour, he remarking upon the elation of my step and, suddenly, we were there at his usual hangout. I followed him down the short flight of steps and barely had a chance to look about me when I was warmly introduced to Devon, the bartender, and Kyriaye (pronounced Kyrie followed by a long A) whose name became more difficult to pronounce as the Captain and Cokes went down. I also met another bartender, named Ed, who appeared to be your next Levi's model, and a gentleman named Ross. The atmosphere was simply charming and the company doubly so.
At the back of the bar, there is a quaint, wooden terrace where one can look up into the night sky and leisurely smoke their cigarettes. We made full use of this backstage burrow and I delighted upon the surrounding buildings that had trees on their roof tops and the evening sky that held a pinch of stars for my squinting eyes. We shared stories and laughed and told jokes and acquainted ourselves with the voices that were faceless until this very night. That is, until the man next door began to complain.
We retreated inside. I distinctly recall an Irish Speaking Contest in which I lost, as John is most gifted in his plethora of worldly accents (including, but not limited to, Southern, Irish and Woody Allen vocals) and a few rounds of a inebriated harmonizing in which no one dared scream 'Encore!' We took our smoking breaks by the front door, which gave me the perfect opportunity to comment on and to every single passerby, and we slowly digressed into the early morning hours of Friday the 7th of January.
I was well on my way to becoming a professional noceur at this favorite hangout of John's. With a freaking 4:00 a.m. bar time.
Three nights in a row.
We resolved to take a taxi back to his place and we must have picked the most carnal cabbie of all of New York. I cannot say that I now remember the conversation held on this colorful journey and I shall therefore refrain from any sordid dialogue, that would surely shock and disgust as well as entertain, but I do seem to recall something in the way of his ten hot dates on New Year's Eve. We paid the 'nice man' and thanked him for sharing his animalistic yarns during our jaunt across town to John's apartment.
There were an inhumane number of steps to climb to his apartment for a person who had just drenched themselves into a twelve hour binge of hard alcohol. Once I saw John fall up the third flight with his attempt at a mad dash, I began to bemoan the fact that it was unlawful to disregard such modern amenities as 'elevators' when hiking along a sierra of stairs. I understand, it's New York, and one pays an unGodly amount of money for the smallest of apartments and perhaps I should have just been thankful that bar time wasn't at 5 or 6:00 a.m., but really, John, the sixth damned floor?! Next time I decide to make my visit to your humble abode, perhaps you would be so kind as to incorporate a harness outside your window that would lift me up from the street.
I made it to the top of those stairs, through a series of doorways and into his overwhelmingly comfortable futon with barely a second thought. John was a perfect gentleman, a generous host, a wonderful tour guide and an extremely vast source of entertainment my first night in New York.
I fell fast asleep to the sound of a methodical crunch as he sat awake, watching a movie from his computer screen, and munched on a bag of endless potato chips.
*** To be continued...