I recall an experience from my days working at a quaint little eatery in SoHo, during a late-night ride home on the uptown 1. There I was, snugly positioned between my backpack and bulky black headphones, when a man, from across me, pulled out a jar of pickles from his shopping bag. He nonchalantly munched on a few, then seemingly on impulse, offered me one. Polite but firm, I passed on his offer, indicating that I had my meal from work packed and ready. He reacted with a shrug, unmindfully going back to his jar of pickles and occasionally sipping the brine.
Fast forward to a lazy summer Saturday, the baker’s run for fresh bread took me down Sixth Avenue, Park Slope. Encountering a roadblock on Carroll Street due to construction work, I saw a burly worker managing traffic and was compelled to take a detour. As I walked along, he loudly proclaimed his affection, which I reciprocated without missing a beat. His apparent surprise matched mine, as I hadn’t expected to respond quite so earnestly. He professed to be an empath, sensing the genuineness of my sentiment. I continued on my path, the sensation of the freshly baked bread swinging gently against my hip lingering on.
The onset of December tingled frosty in 2023 taking me back to a ride on the uptown 6 train. On boarding at 14th Street was a well-built blonde man, swaddled in a fur-lined down jacket, burdened by a sizable case housing a bassoon. Loud music emanated from his headphones, persisting as the man lost himself to rhythm and music aboard the moving train. Absorbed in his world, he promptly disembarked at 28th Street, inadvertently leaving behind his cozy gray wool gloves. Several commuters tried to alert him; the effort went in vain as the train doors shut, leaving behind the lost gloves on the cold train floor.
Moments later, a woman next to me rescued the gloves, earnestly placing them behind her, as though expecting the bassoonist’s return. I perceived in those gloves a quiet surrender to the inevitability of loss and the hope of reunion. As we neared Grand Central, the hope rested in the trust of a kind stranger, anticipating the bassoonist’s return.
My initial encounter with the metropolis happened back in 1981, the Greenwich Village beckoning me to the renowned Cookery to witness the stellar Alberta Hunter’s stage performance. I had developed an affection for her soulful tunes, ‘Amtrak Blues’ casting a spell over my senses. My scruffy appearance belied my age of 23 and it seemed only appropriate they seated me far in the restaurant’s back.
To my pleasant surprise, I found Ms. Hunter nearby, surveying the audience from a private banquette, leisurely before her performance. This diminutive lady in her 80s, sported a sparkling ensemble, paired with oversized, dangling earrings. One instance lodged in my memory involved a trip to the washroom, during which Ms. Hunter noticed my uncertainty and guided me in the right direction.
Upon my return to the seat, I found myself impulsively approaching her. Seizing the opportunity, I gushed over her tremendous influence on me, inquiring eagerly about the possibility of her singing ‘I’ve Got a Mind to Ramble’, a favorite of mine from the movie. Although the initial response was a gentle negation, I was astonished when, later during the act, she turned away from the microphone, whispered to the band, and singled me out of the crowd.
To my disbelief, she asked for my request, triggering a wave of curious onlookers, questioning the person on the receiving end of the legend’s attention. I breathlessly repeated my song request. The ensuing performance, tailored to my request, remains etched in memory as a peak experience.
Navigating the next chapters of my life led me to 2008, into an apartment in Carroll Gardens, my girlfriend and I embarking on the journey of cohabitation. One day, I chanced upon a peculiar, handcrafted ceramic pitcher on a stoop during my walking commute home. The Venus of Willendorf-style pottery topped off with a feline-looking head and a forked tail for a handle, straddled the line between preposterous and amusing in equal measure.
Given our shared affinity for playful banter, I decided to introduce the cryptic-looking find to our shared space with a peculiar proposition for my girlfriend. The proposition was elementary – she could either inspect the mystery object under the provision that we keep it forever, or she could choose to remain oblivious, in which case I vowed to remove the object from our existence and never mention it again.
Fast forward sixteen years. We have forged a wonderful life together – married, blessed with three children, and living in Brooklyn. Amid this typical yet cherished home, one constant yet unsettling presence remains. The grotesque ceramic pitcher, the emblem of a promise, of a lighthearted yet lasting decision, remains a part of our lives – an eccentric artifact we simply cannot part with.