SYNCHRONICITY, OR MEETINGS IN BARS

New York City, last days of May.  

Vesuvio bakery on Prince St., pointed out to me by the friend with whom I'd just had breakfast. (Well, brunch, actually, starting with, respectively, a Bloody Mary and a mimosa.) Where, I later learned, poet Gregory Corso got free breakfast bread for running errands as a homeless boy.  

I had quoted Corso to "Sam" before this, who came in and sat next to me at the oyster bar in the Village where we ate lobster rolls and debated the merits of the mayo kind (their only) vs. the Connecticut buttered kind, and how we agreed that the best way to cook lobster was to steam it with seaweed.   Who seemed touched when I told him about going to the shore in Connecticut and how we always stopped at Jimmy's afterwards for fried clams (well, I left out Jimmy's, but it bears mentioning).  Who bought a dessert for us to share, ate his half, then off quickly into the night.  He had just moved from L.A. (my town) to NYC.  Irony.  We had both been T.A.s at the same university (what years unspoken, middle-agers being self-conscious about such disclosures), he in philosophy, me in English.  Serendipity.  He had--has--a teen-aged son and a relationship.  Story of My Life, Ted Chiang.  Que será será.

(Remembering the interestingly attractive Dutch cinematographer with the long brown hair I met at the bar at the Chinese Theater at AFI Fest last year.  He'd studied at the AFI, and when I asked when, as I knew another DP who'd learned his craft there, Dutch hesitated, then leaned close and confided, I suspect you're much younger than I am.  I laughed so hard I nearly fell off my bar stool.  He fairly whispered his birth year--it was 10 years after mine. It mattered to him. C'est la vie.)

The oyster bar had been recommended by another friend whom I'd met earlier for lunch--I'd told her how disappointed I was the day before to have eaten a slice at the Chelsea Market before I came upon The Lobster Place.  She said, Go to this oyster bar in the Village.  They have one of the best lobster rolls in the city.  You'll feel comfortable eating there alone, because people eat at the bar.  Little did she know how often I eat out alone.

The Chelsea Market had been recommended to me by "Terry," a businessman I met at the hotel bar's happy hour.  I read that the market was touristy, but I was in the neighborhood the next day, so what the hell.  Reminded me a bit of Farmer's Market here in L.A.  Parallel universes.

You seeing the connections, the thread?  Where might it all go, I wonder.

I sent a postcard to the oyster bar, thanking Sam for the dessert, asking the staff to pass it on to him--he was clearly a regular:  You know what I want, he said the head waiter, who was clearly a friend. ("You can stay at my guest house....")

Why do men wince when you tell them you're a psychotherapist?  Once, one who'd been flagrantly flirting with me actually recoiled and, a moment or two later, walked away....

Why do I finally get the urge to write when it's late and I have to work early the next morning?













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