Remembrance of Things Past
I always pick the Art Bar for some reason, even when it’s warm and I want to sit outside. So on Friday I was walking there to meet someone and I was walking on West Fourth Street where it hits West Twelfth at that narrow, cobble-stone intersection with Cubby Hole on one corner and Café Cluny on the other. I was a little early, so I decided to poke my head into Café Cluny, knowing that an old friend of mine is the manager there. I found this out recently because she was profiled in an online feature for New York Magazine.
The last time we’d spoken was in September, I think, before I went out to LA. The last time before that was years ago. We hadn’t seen each other in person since 2000, when we worked at a theatre in Connecticut. In the meantime, she’d been all over: Florida, New York, Los Angeles, St. Louis, then back to New York. She’d gotten married and divorced. Her sister had been in a car accident and, I was told, lost one of her fingers.
When she saw me, she let out a little yelp and came out onto the sidewalk and we both embraced. We said how long it’s been and how strange it was that it had been so long. I told her that I had to run, but I said I’d call and that was that. However, once I got to the Art Bar, a messenger from Café Cluny was fast on my heels with a card that said to bring my friend there for a free drink. My friend and I had several free drinks and before I knew it, I was in a cab to Brooklyn thinking how long it had been since I’d taken a cab to Brooklyn, how beautiful the bridge was and the water.
The heat arrived the next morning and I took an hour, maybe less, to wander down Fifth Avenue in Park Slope, back to the old apartment at Union Street. I noted the changes and what had stayed the same. I also noticed, maybe for the first time, how quiet Park Slope seemed compared to Morningside Heights. I’d forgotten what a difference Manhattan density makes, even on the fringes. I was sad to see Mule Café on Fourth Avenue boarded up. I'd spent so much time there. I would go there before work and sit for long stretches of time drinking coffee and reading Anna Karenina.
In the end it was too hot to walk and I retreated to the subway and hastened back to Manhattan and, reflexively, Doma. French toast and eggs fortified me, but I didn’t get much work done and I think I fell asleep in my chair once or twice, dreaming, no doubt of Whitman on the bridge or reading in Prospect Park. Those were the days.
The last time we’d spoken was in September, I think, before I went out to LA. The last time before that was years ago. We hadn’t seen each other in person since 2000, when we worked at a theatre in Connecticut. In the meantime, she’d been all over: Florida, New York, Los Angeles, St. Louis, then back to New York. She’d gotten married and divorced. Her sister had been in a car accident and, I was told, lost one of her fingers.
When she saw me, she let out a little yelp and came out onto the sidewalk and we both embraced. We said how long it’s been and how strange it was that it had been so long. I told her that I had to run, but I said I’d call and that was that. However, once I got to the Art Bar, a messenger from Café Cluny was fast on my heels with a card that said to bring my friend there for a free drink. My friend and I had several free drinks and before I knew it, I was in a cab to Brooklyn thinking how long it had been since I’d taken a cab to Brooklyn, how beautiful the bridge was and the water.
The heat arrived the next morning and I took an hour, maybe less, to wander down Fifth Avenue in Park Slope, back to the old apartment at Union Street. I noted the changes and what had stayed the same. I also noticed, maybe for the first time, how quiet Park Slope seemed compared to Morningside Heights. I’d forgotten what a difference Manhattan density makes, even on the fringes. I was sad to see Mule Café on Fourth Avenue boarded up. I'd spent so much time there. I would go there before work and sit for long stretches of time drinking coffee and reading Anna Karenina.
In the end it was too hot to walk and I retreated to the subway and hastened back to Manhattan and, reflexively, Doma. French toast and eggs fortified me, but I didn’t get much work done and I think I fell asleep in my chair once or twice, dreaming, no doubt of Whitman on the bridge or reading in Prospect Park. Those were the days.
Labels: Brooklyn
posted by Keith Lubeley at
8:44 PM
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