Finding New York
Sitting outside on Sixth Avenue with a coffee and a paper I don’t feel real.
It’s an odd realization, and I know it has something to do with my expectations. My mind loves to pull me away from where I am, and in this case, it’s looking down on me from above like a cinematographer whose hands shake as he holds up the lens.
A man sits on Sixth Avenue with a coffee and a paper; he’s unsure if he’s real.
Across the street from me is the old women’s prison which long ago was turned into a library. I can’t quite make the two images fit together, so I sip my coffee and wonder what the script has to say about it. Does my character find something profound in that juxtaposition, or is it simply another bit of New York trivia that sounds more significant that it is?
Look, I know why I’m feeling so fucking cinematic.
Just a few moments ago, I looked through the window to see Philip Seymour Hoffman having breakfast with his child. It’s not especially odd, the French Roast is full of local celebrities going about their business, and as a New Yorker I know better than to stare or make a fuss about it. But it hits me all the same, possibly because an actor I know just finished a film with him. It doesn’t mean we have a connection, but I feel one all the same.
I feel connected to Phil.
I don’t yet know that he’ll die in less than a month’s time, and I’m glad of it. That knowledge would destroy everything.
When the camera zooms out, I pick up the paper and lean back in my chair as if I were smoking. It’s a quiet week day morning, and the traffic is slow and lazy like myself. I pretend to read as I catch my reflection in the window of the Roast. I wink as I cross my legs, the paper held high as I hopefully blend into the background.
What I want more than anything is for this moment to feel real. To feel important. I want to feel like New York is inside me and around me and we are one and the same. I want to take the city into my bones until anyone passing by misses me entirely.
Maybe, if I’m lucky, someone will go home to Dayton and tell a friend, “I saw a man sitting outside at a French restaurant one morning. He was drinking a coffee and reading the paper. It was so New York.”
Just after the waiter takes my order, Phil walks out, saying something to the child about the upcoming school day. Without thinking I put the paper down and wave.
I kick myself the second it’s done; it was an instinct without though. It was a gesture born from a false sense of connection, and I hate myself for it instantly. How utterly unlike a New Yorker.
He looks at me, and a hint of confusion crosses his face. But then, out of all expectation, he smiles at me and waves back with a slight nod of his head. He takes the child’s hand and they cross Sixth Avenue, still chatting quietly about something mundane.
By the time my breakfast arrives, I’ve moved on thinking about my work day. I have too many things to finish and not enough time, but I don’t want to go. I want to sit there forever, falling into the background of the city until we’re one and the same.
When I finally do leave, I set the paper down on the table next to my coffee cup.
Maybe the next person will find New York.
