wither i wandered

He was late. I stood outside the appointed Starbucks at Hudson and King, thick and perfect Jacques Torres dark hot chocolate in my hand. It was the earliest I'd woken up since moving here. And he was late.

Months ago, a gentleman excused himself from my boss' office during an unexpected phone call my boss had to take that interrupted their meeting. As he sat politely in the chair across from my cubicle, he asked me about my plan at the company. I told him I was moving to New York to be a writer (in theory.) He offered to introduce me to his friend who was a fairly accomplished writer living in the city. The writer who would be late for our meeting.

On the train downtown, I saw a handful of Giants fans wearing the mass produced jerseys of their idols. An Eli Manning stood over me as he examined the MTA map. I asked him if they were going somewhere, like the Pro Bowl perhaps. For those of you who are football deficient, the Pro Bowl is an assembly of the best players in the National Football League who get together after the season just to play for fun. This Sunday LIVE FROM HONOLULU, HAWAII!!! RAWRRRRR!!! BEER BEER BEER MANLY MANLY MANLY. Just when you thought there would be no more football, the money grubbing NFL brings you MORE football!!

The Eli Manning pointed out his father on the train with us. It was sweet. Filial fanaticism. I thought they were merely extra exhuberant but apparently they were headed to a parade! I've only attended gay pride parades and I was fairly certain that this particular one would be decidedly "un-gay."

The writer. I watched him walk past me and survey the Starbucks for the self-described "tall Chinese girl." He looked dodgy. He wore a blue Dodgers hat with a moustache and a beard.

"Kathleen?" he asked as he walked out of the caffeine fray. His expressionless face would later appear bored.

We walked to a diner a few blocks away and had eggs with bacon so dark it looked like strips of tar. He asked me what I wanted to write. I asked him his process. Had he been more interested, I think he might be incredulous at my lack of focus but mostly he sat across from me, clearing his sinuses and telling me about how he never reads what he writes and that he gets paid a lot of money for it. I wasn't sure what I needed to get from him but what I got was the technique of writing the perfect sentence and then leaving it behind to move onto the next. Without fail. He told me not to self edit. He also told me to, well, write. The fundamental key to writing is writing. He said that it didn't seem like I wanted to write badly enough to belly up to the bar alongside writers who can't fathom doing anything else. So here I am.

He paid for my breakfast and we said goodbye on the corner. He told me to email him and let him know how it's going. It was generous of him to meet with me, a complete stranger. I appreciated that. I don't think he appreciated my never having read a single thing he'd written. Presumptuous of him to think that I would have. But then again, he writes without fear and with the assumption that all those who are literate will rush to find his words on the printed page.

After our meeting, I walked through Soho looking for a shop selling Valentines. I stopped at a Daffys and spontaneously tried on a pinstriped Elie Tahari pant suit. It itched. I felt fraudulent. The suit represented the opposite of what I was about to do on a Tuesday afternoon. I had no destination. I had no plan. I had the day to myself.

I wandered in and out of stores. I marveled at the simple yet entirely fantastic items at Muji. I walked on Canal Street. I saw fakes on display. Watches, scarves, small electronics all copied from quality originals. Other fraudulent items. When I reached the Village, it started to rain.

Sans umbrella, I randomly took shelter at Pennyfeathers Cafe on 7th Avenue South and Barrow Street. The enclosed patio in the front was fairly empty and I sat in a corner with windows around me. I opened my Time magazine and ordered lemonade from a lovely and cheerful waiter named Issac. The chill of the rain came through the glass protecting me from its moisture. I asked Issac which soup he liked and he produced a mild black bean with sour cream and onions on the side. He spoke with an Israeli accent and had the manner of a loving auntie. The starchy dark soup comforted me a little but there was something about the day that left me searching for true warmth. When the rain dissipated, I dressed for my departure but I stood next to my table for a moment as Issac came to retrieve my credit card slip. I needed a favor.

"Issac? Would it be weird if I asked you for a hug?"

"NO! Oh, you make me feel so good!" he replied. We hugged near the door of the restaurant. He was delighted and held his hand over his heart. He asked me if I lived in the neighborhood. When I told him I lived in Harlem, a woman at a nearby table asked me where specifically and then told me that her mother lived at 125th and Lenox. Issac told me to come back whenever I felt like talking or having a cup of coffee. He smiled so kindly on me that it was the bit of sunshine I was looking for on this overcast day.

I strolled to Kate's Paperie to look for Valentines (paper not people.) There, I picked up a job application. Imagine me! Amidst the paperpress notecards and ribbons by the yard. Crafty heaven. From Kate's, I stopped at the grocery store for fruit and laundry detergent.

On the C train home, I realized that I had left my Time magazine at Pennyfeathers. I put my laundry in the wash and called my new friend Issac. He told me that he was taking the magazine home so that it didn't get lost in the shuffle at the restaurant and that he would be working Saturday through Tuesday. I told him I'd be back to see him and pick up the rag over the weekend. I look forward to hugging him again.

My evening at home was peaceful and domestic. I sent thank you notes to friends in LA. Belated with more coming but still, gratitude delayed. I walked to the bodega at the corner of our building and traded 5 nickels for the lone quarter I still needed to dry my whites. I made myself a sandwich with the leftover prime rib. Cheddar, beef and a little bit of Gulden's mustard. I liked meeting the man at the bodega. I liked pretty much everyone and everything about my day. It's probably a little odd for New York.

When my roommates came home, we stayed up late recounting the day. We snacked and laughed. They made grilled cheese sandwiches with the bread and sharp cheddar I'd bought at the grocery store. I've deemed Nate's impersonation of Frenchmen to be a new anti-depressant. His intonation is simply, like my day out was, "hah-may-zang-ghah." And for a good belly laugh, it's never too late.