A New Yorker's Stories

by Philip Gould

  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.

  MEMORIAL DAY

  Memorial Day was the first really summer day this year with temperatures rising to eighty degrees or more. My aerobics class was held in spite of the holiday. But since the class begins at a quarter past one I don’t eat lunch, as I can’t exercise on a full stomach. Getting food afterwards is another issue. I tried finding a decent restaurant in the area around my gym. Nothing quite satisfied me so I finally took the bus back uptown to my neighborhood and to the Columbia Cottage, a Chinese restaurant where the lunch menu was just right. I had prawns in lobster sauce with rice, of course and wanton soup. When I got home for a nap it was almost four in the afternoon. I decided I needed some rest if I intended to go out that evening. A free concert by the New York Philharmonic Orchestra was announced to take place at the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine at eight p.m.

  The announcement said the doors would open at seven p.m., so I took my time, arriving at the Cathedral at seven-thirty p.m. By that time there was a long line of people waiting in front of the Cathedral. I went straight up to the guards at the head of the line to find out what was what. I was told that all the tickets had already been given out. Thinking that I didn’t have a chance to attend this concert I turned to return home. But then I said to myself I should not give up so easily. I walked down Amsterdam Avenue to the driveway, up the driveway to the level of the crossing of the church where I found signs reading “stage entrance.” I took that path and found myself shortly within the church facing the raised platform that would hold the orchestra. I approached a lady usher and asked if I could have a seat. She was so accommodating. “Just wait here,” she said, “I will look for a place.” She came back in a minute and escorted me to an open seat.

  I couldn’t be choosy at that moment. The seat I was offered was between two rather well endowed people. I managed to squeeze into the place. The lady on my right was from Glouster, England, and of a cheery disposition. She smiled and said I could lean upon her if necessary. I didn’t need to do that, instead I regaled her with the architectural history of the building. Since we were seated in the crossing we could see the Romanesque choir, the Gothic nave, and the Byzantine dome overhead. My neighbor was fascinated by my narrative but at that point the kind usher reappeared to tell me that she had found a better seat. I extricated myself from between the pinched position and followed my escort once more. I was placed in the second row directly in front of the podium: it could not have been better. I had a ringside seat to see better and to hear better. Hearing better was an important feature because the musical program began with Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony. The opening chords by the violin section were barely audible in the vast open space of the Cathedral. The conductor was athletic in his manner and practically balleted his way through the two movements. The second part of the program, Mendelssohn’s Symphony No. 4, the Italian Symphony, was a welcome rowdy affair compared to the moody Schubert. The audience gave the conductor David Robertson and the New York Philharmonic Orchestra a rousing three rounds of appreciative applause for the free concert.

  That wasn’t the end of the evening for me. On the way out I made a point of finding my usher for a third encounter to tell her she was my angel. To my surprise she said that she knew me, that we had a relationship some years ago. It took some time for me to remember the actual circumstances of our original meeting but finally that history came to me and we had a revival moment. We will get together again, for sure.

&nb
sp; As I continued my exit I spotted the Dean of the Cathedral. I recognized him because he opened the evening’s program by greeting and introducing the orchestra to the audience. I accosted him to propose on the spot an exhibition of African art in the Cathedral for next February to celebrate Black History Month. He was definitely interested and asked me to get back to him with the specifics. What a coup! What an evening! What a day! Memorial Day, 2008, was also a memorable day.

  AN ALL TOO TYPICAL FULL DAY

  This day was another one of those remarkable New York City days. I planned a rather ambitious agenda which did not work out as I had hoped. Another plan had to be improvised as the day wore on.

  I requested an Access-A-Ride for twelve noon today. I should explain that I am eligible for this service because I have been deemed unstable on my feet and in danger of falling. We all know that elderly people suffer more from falls than any other affliction, so the riding service is important. Well, the van came on time but the driver needed to pick up another rider. The next rider required the van to traverse Central Park and go to the far east side of Manhattan, or way out of the way for my destination. Naturally, I arrived too late at the Fashion Institute of Technology to deposit my gift textile and to return uptown to attend an aerobics class. I was going to return to FIT later in the afternoon to meet a professor there. As it turned out the professor in question was already in the building, so our transaction could be effected on the spot, and once that meeting transpired I would be free for the rest of the day. The meeting with the professor at FIT was entirely rewarding, just to put that event to bed.

  I put off eating lunch today since I would count on going to an aerobics class at one-fifteen. So, I was hungry at two o’clock. I asked the students at the entrance of the school where they go for lunch, and they suggested the deli just down the street. In the interest of saving time, I headed from the local deli and ordered my lunch there: a combination of fast food, Korean, Chinese, and Japanese over-the-counter fare. And then I took the 23rd Street crosstown bus to the far West Side. I had time to visit one of my African dealer friends who just arrived with things of interest to me. I bought, in fact, two Ewe textiles, wraparounds made of narrow strip cloths in bands of blue, and three terra cotta heads from the Koma people who once lived in Northern Togo.

  I made my way back to Seventh Avenue and 23rd Street to catch the Seventh Avenue subway back home. But I stopped in my favorite coffee shop for a coffee and croissant. I should mention the fact that I had left my little wagon at the coffee shop before going to the African market with a request to put one of the remaining croissants away for my return. At four-thirty in the afternoon I generally have a snack to keep me going for the rest of the day.

  I was very tired by this time and wished only to lie down for a while but I had made an appointment with another African dealer for six p.m. I rested only thirty minutes in bed when the doorbell rang. My friend entered and began his line about the excellence of the pieces of African art he was about to show me. The objects were, indeed, of high quality; I had to agree with my friend without getting too enthusiastic. We danced about the quality and costs for a while then settled on a mutually agreed upon figure.

  By now it was just past seven o’clock and time for my news program on TV: James Lehrer. I had leftover Chinese fish soup in the fridge; easy to heat up, and a little salad of lettuce and tomatoes. And so the long day ended, as usual, eating while watching the world and local news. I had accomplished a lot this day: made a donation, acquired several objects from Africa including textiles, wood sculpture, and terra cotta figurines. (4/28/08)

  WHAT A DAY!

  You might think that a day can hold just so much, but surprise, surprise, the day is elastic. My son and daughter-in-law were leaving today to return home to Taiwan. They came to New York for only four days, in part to celebrate my eighty-fifth birthday. Nic made all the essential arrangements even before he left Taipei. We had a birthday party yesterday in the back garden room of Symposium restaurant on 113th Street. About thirty-five people showed up. Everyone had a seat at a table for Greek delights that were served in a continuous stream with wine and ginger ale, and later with coffee and birthday cake that Elka brought. We had a moment of diversion when Bob, Nic’s good friend performed magic tricks and ad-libbed some standard jokes. Towards the end of the afternoon I held a raffle with names of the guests drawn from a bowl by Frank, Nic’s brother-in-law. Two prizes were given to the winners: silk scarves from Gujarat, India.

  And the party broke up. I didn’t ask for or look for gifts but people brought lots of goodies for me and I went home with a good portion of the birthday cake as well.

  But that’s not what I started to talk about: just a little background. The next day Nic and Melanie prepared to leave the city. True to form Nic left important business for the last minute. They both took off around nine-thirty a.m. to arrange an account at a local bank. When they returned it was eleven-thirty a.m. and their car was coming at twelve. They scrambled to gather up their things, pack the last pieces, close the valises, leaving only a few things behind. I was busy too, looking for a cardboard tube to hold a rolled-up canvas they were taking back to Taiwan. I found that tube at the last minute, packed the painting, and sealed the ends of the tube. The phone rang to announce that the car was waiting in front of the building. I went down with my children to say a final good-bye and off they went.

  I hardly had a moment to rest before I left also to attend my aerobics class on 80th Street. I was pretty exhausted but carried on with the exercises because they are so important. I feel better when I exercise so I pushed myself a little bit. After the class I visited Zabars which is just across the street. Then I rushed home to be on time to greet my friends from the Israel Museum. Fortunately they arrived a half hour later than planned which gave me a little more time to rest. As soon as my friends arrived I told them that we would have to leave to get to the post office before the post office closed, to mail my income tax return. The returns had to be post-marked on this day. So off we went all three of us. I got to the post office one minute before five o’clock when the doors would be closed; just in the nick of time, as they say.

  We proceeded to a local restaurant for an early dinner, then back to the apartment to spend the next hour or so looking at the South China textiles I would be donating to the museum. The day was long and full of many different comings and goings, of saying hello and saying good-bye. I still had time to watch half of the James Lehrer news program on TV, followed by John Stewart and the Colbert shows.

  That was a day. (10/15/07)

  A TRIP AROUND THE WORLD IN 12 HOURS

  New York never ceases to amaze me for the opportunities it provides. Yesterday was just such an example of a rich and varied experience. The day began at a friend-dealer’s apartment where I picked up several strands of beads from Burma, Thailand, India, and some places in Africa. I ran off to a senior citizen center on the Upper West Side for lunch, which included a pork chop, mashed potatoes and mixed vegetables, half a grapefruit and tea. By one o’clock I was on my way to the 77th Street School Yard Flea Market to make a quick check and walk around, and talk to dealer friends. The bakery stands there are good for provisions for later in the day. I bought a bag of madeleines. The bus on Columbus Avenue got me through the complicated route changes on Sunday to 25th Street and Broadway, and access to the flea markets between Broadway and Sixth Avenue. I negotiated a purchase of three strands of beads from Africa, beautiful old beads that are hardly ever seen these days. While in the neighborhood I bumped into an old acquaintance, a lawyer, who was just the right person to offer advice on a pending legal matter. The afternoon was closing in on me when I remembered I had an invitation to a recital of Chinese music in Greenwich Village at five o’clock. But first a stop at my favorite café on 23rd Street and Seventh Avenue was in order. This shop is tiny, with only one table and two chairs, a New York treasure just the same, for the coffee and croissants (made on the premises) are e
xcellent: a refuge and a delectable delight. The subway ride from 23rd Street to Sheridan Square was just three stops and Greenwich Village Music School a few blocks further. The Concert of Qin music drew a small select audience with patience and devotion to a Chinese musical tradition, probably two thousand years old that was always the purview of a select few. The ancient instrument with seven silk strings is barely audible beyond six feet and demands the utmost attention. Nearly three hours of concentrated listening was as exquisite a New York experience as one could imagine.

  In one afternoon, I touched bases with half a dozen Asian cultures, visited two flea markets, got legal advice, bought some quality beads, refreshed my palate, indulged my senses with an exotic musical treat, and got home too late to take on another meal. I was surfeited as it was. (6/04/06)

  THE HOUSE I LIVE IN

  The house I live in will be one hundred years old in 2010 and that calls for a celebration. Furthermore, I’ve been here for fifty-five years or for more than half of the life span of the building, and in the same apartment, mind you. I must be the tenant with the longest tenure in the building. You can say I’ve gotten to know the place. Indeed, I have seen so many families come and go, so many tenants arriving and departing, watching children growing up not the least my own. My first son was three when we moved in. He made friends with the neighbors on the floor below and soon the old man and my son were watching baseball games together on the television. Altogether we raised four children, moving them from one room to another as they grew up. Getting them all dressed and fed and off to school every morning was a chore. You could say we had a regular industry going for a while. Happily all my children reached the time when they needed to strike out for themselves and so they left to set up their own homes. For a long time my wife and I enjoyed the apartment, each with our own rooms and the space to pursue our individual interests. But in the nature of things I am now rattling alone in a rather large space; sometimes getting from room to room is an arduous hike.