My mantra for life in NYC: Just go out your door. Whether it’s a bus ride across town or the corner bodega, the stories are there, waiting to be chronicled.

Here, in no particular order, are some of mine.

“Watching” the Barbershop
November, 2018

My watched stopped when I was at Union Square. I Googled “watch battery replacement” and found a place with great reviews, but when I got to the address, it was a barbershop. Through the window I caught the eye of a fellow inside and pointed to my watch. He nodded enthusiastically and motioned me in.  

The barbershop all but concealed a tiny watch repair shop at the back of the store. A table separating the two held a bottle of vodka and a silver dish heaped with chocolates, ostensibly for patrons. But there were no patrons—just the co-owners, two brothers from Russia.  

While one busied himself with my watch, the other, in a heavy Russian accent, asked, “You live here in New York?” “Yes,” I answered.  "You want to move out?” he asked. My confusion must have shown, so he clarified with a hand gesture of a mouse crawling away. “Out of the city? Never! ” I exclaimed. Pleased to have found a comrade, he went on. “Dah—yes! I live in Seattle long time ago.” He waved a hand to show just how long. “Everyone smiling.” He did an impression of a grotesque smile, pulling up the corners of his mouth with his fingers. “Why smiling all the time? Everyone say ‘Hi, how are you?’” He bent over to demonstrate exaggerated handshakes with several invisible locals. “Is too much, you know? I move to Brighton Beach. I like Brooklyn.”  

Meanwhile, his brother had installed my new battery. I paid him, politely declined a chocolate and a half-filled shot glass, and promised that if ever my watch should need repair, I wouldn’t dream of going anywhere else.

Leftovers
December, 2018

We over-ordered at a Japanese restaurant. I put a pair of chopsticks in the bag of leftovers, said goodbye to my friend and headed home, hoping to find a hungry sushi connoisseur along the way.

On the L train a gentleman holding a cup came up the aisle asking for money. “Would you like some food?” I inquired eagerly. He paused long enough to give me a condescending stare before moving on. Another fellow sprawled on a seat asleep might have been interested, but it didn’t seem prudent to wake him.

At Union Square I switched to the Q and got off at the 86th St. station. At the top of the second escalator a woman came toward me pushing a grocery wagon full of cans and bottles. “Would you like some food?” I asked. “Oh, I sure would—thank you!” “It’s sushi,” I beamed, “With chopsticks!” Her face fell. “Oh, I can’t have fish.” “Some of it is vegetarian,” I reassured her desperately. “Did it touch the fish? I can’t have it if it touched the fish.” “No, I’m sure it didn’t—well, maybe—I mean … I don’t know.” “Thanks anyway,” she said, waving me away and pushing her cart.

I left the station. Walking up First Avenue I saw someone slouched against the wall of the hardware store on the next corner. He seemed to be going nowhere so I hurried toward him. But as I approached, I realized that what had looked like a large man in blue was actually a poster of a menacing blue gorilla taped to the side of the building.

I carried the leftovers toward home, their fragile future unresolved.

Delectables
December, 2018

On the long checkout line at Fairway I had time to peruse the strategically placed tasting samples. Bypassing the baby salami and breadsticks with jam, I opted for the Buffalo mozzarella and spiked one with a toothpick. I was happily chomping when a middle-aged woman ahead of me asked suspiciously, “They give you toothpicks?” Mouth full, I pointed to where they were. She stood on tiptoe to see for herself, waited until I was done chewing and asked, “Was it good?” “Yeah, actually—pretty good.”

The line crawled forward a few inches and stopped, positioning us in front of packages of some orange substance. I looked at the label. “Quince paste,” I announced.  Then, with my best shot at conspicuous sarcasm, ““Oh my gosh, I almost forgot—I ran out of quince paste!” The woman looked alarmed. “What do you do with it?” she ventured anxiously.  I felt for her. “Just kidding!” I said. “You know, the essentials: bread, milk, quince paste …” She took a moment to process, then, “Oh—Ha-ha-ha!”

Wondering what one does do with quince paste, I read the suggestions on the package aloud: “Pairs harmoniously with cheese.”  “Pehhhs hah-mon-iously,” I drawled. “That’s gonna be more expensive than ‘Goes well with cheese,’ right?” This was risky. The woman looked momentarily perplexed, then: “Ha-ha-ha!” She was coming around.

The line moved and stopped again. This time, when she turned to face me I saw a mischievous twinkle in her eye. Fortifying herself with a deep breath, she went for it: “Juice, eggs—quince paste! Ha-ha-ha!” She seemed proud and delighted. I was too.

The Bear Facts
January, 2019

Approaching East 87thStreet, I saw someone carrying a large, apparently heavy object. Coming closer, I realized that it was the iconic Bareburger bear. The restaurant was just opening and the statue was en route to its customary spot out in front.

The human-sized bear seemed larger than the scrawny fellow carrying it. I waited for him to set it down and said, “Aha, so that’s how it gets there!” He laughed. “This is your job?” I asked. Panting slightly, he beamed, “Yup—every day.” “Where’s his cave?” I inquired. He pointed to the entryway. “Right inside.” “And he’s okay out here all day?” I asked. A shadow of concern passed across the fellow’s face. “Well …They try to take him, you know.” “You mean steal him?” I asked, astonished, “Who would do that?” “Oh, everyone. Kids mostly. You see this?” he asked, pointing to half an ear, “Halloween. They broke it off.” He contemplated the bear, clearly taking the injustice personally. I felt guilty at having caused this sensitive lad to relive an unpleasant memory. “What a shame.” “Yeah …” he replied, not really to me. But when he saw me grimacing at a couple of cracks down the bear’s side, he perked up. “Oh, those are just old age,” he reassured me. “How old is he?” “Six.” “Well, for an old guy he’s doing pretty well.” “Yeah,” he laughed, regarding the furless beast with affection. 

Somewhat relieved, I continued down First Avenue.

Bus Minstrel
January, 2019

On the crosstown bus I heard singing coming from the seat behind me, “E-i-e-i-o … And on his fowm he had a…” During the pause I turned around and saw a pint-sized vocalist, maybe 3 ½, deep in thought, tapping his chin with a forefinger. “What about a cow?” I offered. He knitted his eyebrows and continued tapping. “A hen?” I asked. He didn’t seem interested in collaboration. “Well, good luck!” I turned back around in my seat. After several seconds … “And on his fowm he has a chick …” I faced him again and said, “I really like that song.” “Yeah,” he conceded.

Our friendship thus cemented, the tiny minstrel began to share his day: “We going to Fehway.” “I shop at Fairway too!” I exulted. “…and then bahzuhnole,” said he. Few things make me squirm more than not understanding what a young child is trying to say. “Uh—where?” I queried feebly. “Bahzuhnole,” repeated the lad. I looked to his mother for a translation, but she just smiled sympathetically. I looked back at the boy. With the patience of a clergyman ministering to the needy, he tried again, slowly: “Bah-zuh-nole.” Then the light bulb: “Barnes and Noble!” I shouted. An elderly man looked at me disapprovingly. I granted him a sheepish grin, then to the lad whispered, “I’ve been to Barnes and Noble. Lots of books there!” “Many book,” he corrected.

The youngster and his mom got off at the next stop. I saw him standing on the sidewalk, looking up at the bus. I caught his eye and waved. He waved back as the bus pulled away.

Oasis In the Jungle
January, 2019

My guest from the west coast wanted falafel—the kind she claims you can only find in the Middle East or NYC. So I brought her to Oasis, a tiny place off of Bedford Avenue in Williamsburg.

To maximize the Brooklyn experience, we sat at a counter facing the window. While we were sharing the mixed platter, a man came in wearing a North Face jacket and safari hat. “Don’t worry,” he assured us, smiling broadly, “we won’t be here long!” Before we had time to wonder what that meant, in walked about thirty tourists. The fellow deftly maneuvered them into a circle, then went to the counter and brought back two dishes piled high with falafel, some tahini, toothpicks and napkins. While his charges munched messily on tahini-dripping falafel balls, their leader shared facts about the restaurant and its cuisine. To wrap up the lecture he added, “This is a very popular spot with locals.” Sweeping his arm in our direction he concluded, “Like these ladies at the counter.” Tickled to be mistaken for a Brooklynite, my guest held her plate high for the visitors to glimpse. 

As the tour guide herded his flock back out onto the street, he stopped right next to us. “It’s nice when they get to see native New Yorkers,” he confided. “Actually,” I replied, “she lives in Oregon.” “Ha!” said he, “And I’m from San Francisco!”

Cab Fare
May, 2019

In a taxi making its way down Columbus Avenue in the pouring rain, I reached into my bag for my wallet, groped around, and froze. I’d left it in the pocket of the jacket I wasn’t wearing. “Uh-oh,” I muttered. “What’s the matter?” asked the cabbie. “I forgot my wallet.” Silence.

I’d never been in this situation before. What would happen? My anxiety rose along with a desire to suppress it. The cabbie held my fate in his hands. Would he yell “Get out!” and leave me stranded in the downpour? Call a policeman over to cart me away? My only hope was likeability: “My friend can give me money when we get there,” I offered with desperate sweetness. At long last, his verdict: “You’ll have to leave something in the cab.” I took my first full breath.

I surveyed my possessions: an umbrella and a cake. The rain pelted the cab’s windows. I couldn’t leave the umbrella. “Can I leave the cake? I baked it myself!” “Okay, leave the cake,” said he, pulling up to the curb. “It’s for my friend’s birthday,” I explained as I texted her, “but if I never come back, it’s yours!” “I don’t want your cake.” I opened my umbrella and dashed for the building, where my friend was waiting in the lobby with a bill in her hand. I snatched it ungraciously and ran back to the cabbie. He rolled down his window. I paid him, grabbed the cake from the back, and gushed a thank you while he stared straight ahead, unsmiling. Crossing the street, skirting puddles, I heard him call, “I hope she likes the birthday cake, whoever it is!”

Ballerina Doorman
August, 2019

I was having lunch at the NY Film Center, gazing vacantly out the glass door that leads to the lobby. Suddenly, the doorman, a middle-aged stocky fellow in full uniform—brass buttons, gold braid and cap—did several jetés that took him across the room. With a final pirouette he landed next to the ticket taker, who giggled while he leaned his elbows on her podium, panting.

I grabbed my cell phone and headed for the lobby. “Excuse me,” I said, “I loved your dance!” “Oh, uh, thanks,” he replied, a tad shyly but grinning. “Would you mind if I video a repeat performance?” I asked. “Just one show a day!” he laughed. “You know, the knees,” he added as he hurried to open the door for an elderly woman.

I continued toward the ladies room. As I passed the ticket taker, she called me over. “You know,” she whispered, "he’s a real dancer." “Yes, that was something,” I agreed. “No!” said the woman, I mean a real dancer. He used to dance with City Ballet.” “Seriously?” I asked, and turned to see him greeting a young couple with a smile, his alter ego well under wraps.

Hundred Dollar Bill
August, 2019

Walking down Broadway near Columbus Circle I heard a voice close to me yell, “Hector—mira!” I turned and saw a young man pointing. I followed his finger, and there on the sidewalk near my foot lay a $100 bill. A few seconds later, there was a loud bang as a woman’s boot came down hard on it. She bent over, retrieved the bill, looked quickly from side to side, and walked briskly away, clutching her treasure in a gloved hand.

Several young men, gesticulating and yelling in Spanish, surrounded Hector, the guy who had dropped the money. Though I didn’t understand what they were saying, it was easy to see how upset they were. Yet Hector himself seemed cool as a cucumber as he righted his backpack and pulled the drawstring tight. I went up to him. “Did that woman just take your money? I asked, incredulous. “Yeah,” he answered calmly. Before I could think of a second question, he said, “It’s a fake.” “What?” “The money. It’s fake.”

With his agitated posse in tow, Hector continued down Broadway.