Night Cap
and then there are moments like these
walking out of yoga to golden light and the vegan hole in the wall next door.
the long street in the east village all hustle bustle - restaurant after michelin starred restaurant.
lovers and friends coming and going, gleefully letting loose after a long work week
the light is magnifying as i turn the corner. i pass shops - three in a row - that make me pause and take in the offering - mentally filing it away. a glass jar cafe, a star studded italian trattoria, a vintage letter store. my breath catches.
i feel free as i follow the subway path making my way to the west side - above ground this time, taking in the scene. pretending i belong here. maybe i do.
the long street in the east village all hustle bustle - restaurant after michelin starred restaurant.
lovers and friends coming and going, gleefully letting loose after a long work week
the light is magnifying as i turn the corner. i pass shops - three in a row - that make me pause and take in the offering - mentally filing it away. a glass jar cafe, a star studded italian trattoria, a vintage letter store. my breath catches.
i feel free as i follow the subway path making my way to the west side - above ground this time, taking in the scene. pretending i belong here. maybe i do.
i almost pass right by, but decide to ask the old man outside how much the charge is. i realize now what a silly question it was. the show was already sold out and packed. anyone would have known that. he graciously - knowingly - allowed me to check out the scene for myself. he knew how special it was. he was right.
for the third time tonight, i gasp. why does this still surprise me? a flight of stairs and i’m back in the 1940′s. tiny room filled with people, all sitting in chairs drinking in the three men in hats getting lost in the jazz. the bartender pours and watches the show too. it’s hard to look away. this is only the first act.
i stay for a song and make my way back up the stairs, not wanting to overstay my gracious welcome. i exit the door and grimace at the same old man, my way of asking to be let out so i could make my way home. instead he looks at me in wonder, iPhone pressed up against his ear.
“do you know what song this is?” he asks. i recognized it, truthfully, but wasn’t quite sure of its name. i nod enthusiastically, as i always do. afraid to disagree, afraid to reveal my lack of music history, and therefore culture. “i love Jerome Kern” he sighs. i rack my brain back to musical theatre history class. what do I know about Jerome Kern? but it’s alright because he’s pressing the phone up to my ear.
“Who’s that singing with him (Fred Astaire)?” i know this one. “Ginger Rodgers” i tell him. He grins. “Let’s look up another one.” So it goes for a while, back and forth with the iPhone, until i ask what led him to sell tickets for jazz.
“i’ve been here for 25 years.” He tells me. “Oh, dedicated fan?” I say, impressed. “Well I started this club. and the one across the street and the one next door. But i’m no good at running it anymore.” I gulped, forced myself to laugh. “oh.” i say stupidly. but he wasn't bragging. he didn't expect me to know. it was just a fact. he begins singing to himself & I’m grateful.
“You’ve got a voice!” I tell him. “Oh, I can sing.” He proves it. Out comes the sweetest, most charming melody as he sings a full verse and chorus of an old song i wish i could remember now. I applaud. “Now you’re going to sing me a song,” he says. I stare. “You set the bar too high!” I protest. He pulls me onto the bench. “sit down.” i sit. “sing. i won’t look at you.” i do. when i finish, he smiles and tries to recall who sang it first. we look it up, this time on my iPhone.
my stomach growls, an old familiar feeling in this city, and we exchange names and i tell him i’ll see him again. i get up to leave. “make sure to go to my other club, Fat Cat, it will be your new place!” he calls after me.
how did he know? i long for a “place.” always. a sense of belonging in a city that threatens to strip the "you" in you. in new york, there are so many “places.” how does one choose. how does one keep coming back when there are so many to see, to experience.
“Who’s that singing with him (Fred Astaire)?” i know this one. “Ginger Rodgers” i tell him. He grins. “Let’s look up another one.” So it goes for a while, back and forth with the iPhone, until i ask what led him to sell tickets for jazz.
“i’ve been here for 25 years.” He tells me. “Oh, dedicated fan?” I say, impressed. “Well I started this club. and the one across the street and the one next door. But i’m no good at running it anymore.” I gulped, forced myself to laugh. “oh.” i say stupidly. but he wasn't bragging. he didn't expect me to know. it was just a fact. he begins singing to himself & I’m grateful.
“You’ve got a voice!” I tell him. “Oh, I can sing.” He proves it. Out comes the sweetest, most charming melody as he sings a full verse and chorus of an old song i wish i could remember now. I applaud. “Now you’re going to sing me a song,” he says. I stare. “You set the bar too high!” I protest. He pulls me onto the bench. “sit down.” i sit. “sing. i won’t look at you.” i do. when i finish, he smiles and tries to recall who sang it first. we look it up, this time on my iPhone.
my stomach growls, an old familiar feeling in this city, and we exchange names and i tell him i’ll see him again. i get up to leave. “make sure to go to my other club, Fat Cat, it will be your new place!” he calls after me.
how did he know? i long for a “place.” always. a sense of belonging in a city that threatens to strip the "you" in you. in new york, there are so many “places.” how does one choose. how does one keep coming back when there are so many to see, to experience.
Mitch shared a piece of his soul with me tonight, and he did it so effortlessly. i’d like to learn that. learn how to be so authentically me anywhere any place. to reject fear. to sing on the bench outside of the jazz club. to belong in this city. even when i don’t know how.
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