A New Yorker's Stories (7 page)

CHAPTER V: NEW YORK

BOTH ENDS OF 23rd STREET

Today was another New York Day! I had prepared for the day the night before by writing all the objectives and numbering them in the order of execution with consideration to strategic subway stops and convenient bus connections and the time factor for each event.

I had to fast this day for blood taking. So without breakfast I left home around nine- thirty already a little late. There was a stop first at Walgreen's pharmacy to drop off four prescriptions. I was not a little dismayed by the express train flying past my local stop filled with travelers in mid-morning too late to go to work, I thought, and too early to be sight-seeing or seeking entertainment. It is a puzzlement for me to figure out what so many people are doing traveling in the middle of the morning. I grabbed the express train waiting at the 96th Street station just to save a few minutes. The prescriptions were dropped off, and three vials of blood were taken a little later at the lab; the schedule was working. When I stopped at the corner deli I was really hungry. I ordered a take-out sandwich and coffee which I consumed, partly, on the bus going to 23rd Street. I was on time for the physical therapy session at the VA hospital. The session was productive especially since I was asked to lie upon a padded table to perform certain stretching exercises. Between movements I could simply relax and catch my breath. At twelve noon I headed over to the local senior citizen center for lunch just in time to get in the serving line without having to wait. I'm on friendly terms with several seniors there so we could converse over lunch.

Then I took the 23rd Street bus going west all the way to Eleventh Avenue and to the “Black Market” where I met some of my African friends and spent another hour and a half looking at African artifacts. The scene there is actually in a downward spiral. Many fellows are returning to Africa probably never to return to the United States given the difficulties regarding immigration protocol. The storage house in former times was a haven for the African merchants, a place to socialize, to display their wares, to share life's ups and downs. It was for a long time a very convivial place but little by little, due to the change in the neighborhood, the space became too valuable for just storage. Chelsea was gentrifying, boutiques were entering the picture not to mention the flood of upscale galleries. The African dealers were literally squeezed out. Besides, African artifacts, like other third world objects are not infinite, they get used up and bought up and eventually disappear never to be replaced. We are living through an historic moment, as it were.

One of my African friends accompanied me home via taxi because the bag of African brass figures I bought was too heavy for me to lift. I served my friend a late lunch and off he went. I collapsed in my bed for an afternoon nap until six. Another day in New York, only in New York, where so many events could be crowded into one day. (9/12/07)

THE CARLYLE

Yesterday was a day to remember. It began inauspiciously because the subway was partially closed, at least, the trains were bypassing the local stations on the Upper West Side. There are little posters plastered all over the station but no one really pays attention to them before it is too late. New Yorkers depend on their public transportation when it works. On this day it was not working and I was in a desperate way to reach my destination for a luncheon appointment, not just any luncheon appointment, but a very special one at the Carlyle Hotel. I have never been there, though the name is legendary and of another world I never expected to inhabit even for a second. But I am incredibly late. What to do? I thought about several alternatives all of which would make me extremely late and possibly jeopardize the whole thing. At that moment another fellow was hailing a cab, because he was also put out by the subway problem. In a moment of desperation I cried out “can you give me a lift?” He turned toward me and said, “Where are you going?” I told him and he said, “Get in.” So off I went with a New Yorker who saved my day in an act of spontaneous generosity and trust. We hardly exchanged more than three words, respecting each other's privacy. I stepped out of the cab at 76th Street and Fifth Avenue, just one block from The Carlyle. I was on time because New York can sometimes be a very friendly place.

The Carlyle was something else. The marble floors and thick plush carpets kept me, I hate to say, on my toes, making adjustments for the changes underfoot. I passed through several chambers before I found my friend already seated and waiting. Wow! What an atmosphere of elegance and privilege and money. The rooms were of various shapes with fancy wall decorations, and oriental tapestry covered low benches. The room where we met was oval shaped, in a Baroque tradition, with only four tables placed against the walls so each table was essentially isolated. The ceilings in the room were high, so the place felt spacious and the sounds were muffled; you could talk to your luncheon partner without any danger of being overheard. It was perfect for the sort of tête-à-tête meeting that requires intimacy and confidentiality. I didn't need any of that sort of thing but the ambiance was interesting to experience.

The menus were an elaborate set of leather-covered booklets for different parts of the meal. Mind you, this was just lunch. And four or five people were in attendance throughout the meal: maitre d', sommelier, waiter, and busboy. I probably lost track of everyone coming to our table in the course of the meal. Prices were terrible, that is, terribly high. I settled for the little menu of three courses for $31.00. I had a puree of parsnip soup served in a shapely small, off-white tureen. When I added some lemon juice the thick, rich mix was more palatable. The main course was salmon, cooked as I requested, medium well done, surrounded by the tiniest of lentils in a white creamy sauce. I ended with a regular coffee and a chocolate cake…a cake so rich I could not finish it. This was a once in a lifetime to do, never, never to be repeated.

The lunch was leisurely enough, actually a little too protracted, and I never did get used to the thick carpets or to the sequence of little rooms. My friend was used to treating himself well so he surely didn't relish the meeting the way I did.

HOW TO PENETRATE THE CORPORATE INNER OFFICE

Monday is an unusual day because I have an aerobics class at a quarter past one; too close to lunchtime to eat and too late to eat “lunch.” So I snack at ten-thirty in the morning and after gym I snack again at Zabars. The best part of this strange timing is that I have the better part of the afternoon at my disposition. I caught the Broadway bus 104 on the fly to 57th Street. Walked two long blocks, prestigious blocks, to 57th Street and Fifth Avenue. Everyone knows Tiffany's is located on the southeast corner of this intersection.

Tiffany's has very rarely been my destination. However, on a mild December afternoon lots of people must have had Tiffany on their minds. The store was buzzing with shoppers, a gentle buzz, to be sure, almost on the hushed side as customer and salespeople hover over diamond necklaces or jewel-studded bracelets. Some men survey the cavernous room. You sense security must be a big concern. These fellows were so well groomed. I thought they must visit the barber at least twice a month.

Well, I have the name of an employee of Tiffany in my little calendar book but who should I ask where to find her? I was directed to the concierge at the very entrance of the shop. And as I passed several display cabinets on my way I was startled to discover the unique way bracelets and wristwatches were presented—floating, as it were, into space. The precious items were suspended without any obvious means of support. How ingenious, I thought. What was the secret? Closer inspection revealed a collar locked onto the inner surface of the object and set in place by a means of a plug into a corresponding hole in the base.

My mission to Tiffany's changed on the spot. Now I had two questions for the concierge.

The concierge was a portly gentleman. He was just a little taken back by questions and reasons for coming to Tiffany but I saw he was used to accommodating visitors. He made a couple of in-house telephone calls which looked optimistic and pessimistic by turns. Finally he said he could not help me because the supplier would not wish to disclose its identity. It had not occurred to me that such an item would be considered a trade secret but I had to bow to the protocol of the house. Then I posed the second question about the employee of Tiffany. I was informed that administrative personnel were housed in an entirely different building about two blocks away. That revelation made perfectly good sense: why lose selling space to administration. Before trekking over to the other building I decided to take advantage of my presence in the store to visit the collections of Frank Gehry, one of the latest designers to join the distinguished ranks of fashion masters in the high-end jewelry business. Paloma Picasso was another name housed on the third floor. I entered the elevator and was about to go up when the concierge suddenly appeared beckoning me to step out of the elevator. What had I done now? Will I be thrown out on my heels, or held for questioning?

No! He had just obtained information about the mounts, all written out on a scrap of paper. Terrific. I had the name and telephone number of a person who could help me, in my hand. Now our conversation changed. The gentleman from a Haitian family could speak French, of course, and so we did. We cut through a lot of formal talk to essentials about each other in about two minutes. We had become friends. More, later about the reference I had tucked away.

The visit to the third floor was something of an anticlimax. The highly polished silver objects looked somewhat forlorn under the glass and spaced out upon the beige satiny grounds. Besides, I was still thinking of the clever ways of supporting and showing off jewelry.

The trip to the administrative offices was another challenge. I had the name in my little book from two months ago. In the lobby the gentleman at the reception desk mumbled something about security and how things had changed in that regard. He asked who I wished to see and if I had an appointment. I mumbled back that I had an appointment citing the name of the person in my notebook. He asked to see a photo ID, which I produced and he then punched a monitor screen many times with his finger. I thought he was clearing my name from an intelligence center. Finally, he told me to go through the gates he had opened from behind his desk. I had passed the first hurdle. I had no idea where to go from here. I took a chance with the express elevator to the eleventh floor which I thought might be right from the illuminated tenant board at the entrance. No, nothing on the eleventh floor corresponded to Tiffany's. Back to the lobby and a few discreet questions got me to the right floor only to be greeted by another receptionist behind a huge granite slab of a desk. She took my hat and coat to the paneled door closet. I was getting the royal treatment without disclosing my role, which made me a little uneasy. Who do you wish to see? Do you have an appointment? I couldn't bring myself to say yes or no. I resorted to mumbling once more. “I have to see such and such a person, we've been in touch for some time” and so forth as I extended my calling card. Then the telephone call was made: I held my breath. Would that person remember? Would she say “write a letter” or “send a fax.” Time was so precious now and all the ingenuity and initiative that got me this far might have imploded on the spot. My correspondent must have wondered how I managed to get through all the corporate barriers. Did curiosity win her over or a predisposition to be helpful. She came out of the inner office. We sat on the upholstered chairs in the entrance reception area and got our business done. She accepted a packet of papers I had prepared and we parted. This was one big achievement, saving lots of time and energy because I did not have to go through “regular” procedures. But the afternoon was only half over.

There were two more stops to make, all in the same area, in that fabulous New York center of art galleries and antiquities establishments where the rents are so high only the best and most expensive items can be offered to the patrons and lovers of art. In these places time may pass boringly slow or people sweat out tense relationships but the façade must always remain impeccable and affable. I think my visits were welcome interludes; lucky me. Two more times that afternoon I found myself beyond the public rooms, now the conversation could be open and unambiguous and hopefully eventually fruitful.

Postscript
: The next day I actually met the concierge's referenced Tiffany's worker who was more than cooperative in responding to my inquiry about bracelet supports. (12/11/06)

A DAY I WISH I COULD REDO

The day began auspiciously enough but ended in a minor catastrophe. My young friend came over around eleven o'clock as planned. He is an ethnic Chinese but a second generation Chinese. Both his parents are professionals, doctors who could and did give their son the best possible American education. He graduated from an Ivy League school. He has every appearance of a Chinese boy doll: straight black hair, high cheekbones, eyes that slant, and all the rest, but he doesn't speak a word of Chinese and doesn't have the slightest knowledge of his Chinese heritage and furthermore doesn't much care. Well, he is just like another American young man and that is how is sees himself. He made me think of a similar case. While traveling in the Mexico City subway I noted a chap who looked exactly like the images of Mayan or Aztec men found on stone stele or painted on ceramics: a sharp aquiline nose, slightly slanted forehead, and ruddy complexion. But this fellow was dressed in the modish style clothing of contemporary Mexicans. I was sure he had no idea of his ancestral past. I thought there must be a time warp here. Only anthropologists and archaeologists keep the history of the past current.

My Chinese-American friend and I went out to lunch. I introduced my young friend to my senior citizen center lunch. It was a ritual I wanted to share with him and he was also curious to see another side of life in New York. All the old-timers at the table took the young man in stride, a gracious gesture, I thought.

We parted afterwards. I took the subway downtown and my friend the subway uptown. I was headed to the Downtown Hospital on Williams Street just to check on the exhibition of my wife's paintings. Forty paintings were still up in a two-month long memorial exhibition in “celebration” of my wife's demise early in August. She requested the show of her paintings on her deathbed and her friends fulfilled their promise. The opening was a huge success. I thought about a hundred people showed up, enjoying the reception food and drink (wine as well as soft drinks). I offered a thirty-minute slide show and talk on modern art of the past one hundred years as a way to give a context to my wife's work. Everyone acted in a most respectful way: lots of hugs and words of support. But I digress from the day I wish I could undo.

I grabbed the number 15 bus on Park Row to go the short distance to Confucius Square in Chinatown. My barber was only a block away on that little crooked street that connects the Bowery with Pell Street. The barber is a young man who knows me now since this was my second visit. He speaks very little English and only Cantonese Chinese so communication was not easy. But he had a lot of aplomb and went to work as if he knew exactly what I wanted. He didn't but I couldn't protest too much so I ended up with too much of a haircut. Well, I thought, the summer weather is still with us and my hair will grow in before the cold season begins.

You are always tempted to buy something when in Chinatown, especially fruit. I did get a pound of green grapes of a tropical sort with a filling something like li-gee before boarding the 103 bus going uptown on Third Avenue. The stop on 27th Street was not too far from my next stop, which was The Middle Eastern Carpet Company.

The Middle Eastern carpet company had a textile for me from a friend in Istanbul. The textile in question was a small square, hand-embroidered, from Central Asia. It is a splendid example of the handiwork of another day which may never be seen again. Globalization and industrialization have all but eliminated folk crafts. Manufactured goods are cheap and accessible; no one is going to spend six months sewing a pillow cover. I loved the new acquisition and I enjoyed making new acquaintances. We had a long talk about this and that, and I parted with the textile carefully wrapped around a cylindrical tube. The nearest subway station was only a block away. I, of course, lost track of the time. It was already five-thirty and I had a dinner engagement at six o'clock. I quickly entered the station and jumped into the first train that arrived. The train was crowded, it was the rush hour, and I got squeezed into the standing area just beyond the door without realizing that the bag which held the precious textile was caught in the middle of the standing mass. I pulled the bag out but it was too late. When I got home and opened the bag I found that half the tiny circular mirrors sewn into the fabric had been broken. I was devastated and could only blame myself. Here was a centuries-old textile that survived the elements for so long only to be damaged in a New York City subway. The day ended on a sad note.