What was twenty bucks, really? We had talked about seeing the Yankees play atYankee Stadium, and still hadnât got tickets. I thought about money too much that trip. It was our chance to treat New York lightly, to be young there and care about little, but I was seeing money as a limit to everything rather than as our only limit.
And I was thinking of Natalie, the girl I had broken up with to be with Lindsey and who had suggested the New York trip in the first place. She had a wish list that included the Museum of Modern Art, meeting particular graphic novelists and New Yorker cover artists, and buying something that came in a Bloomingdaleâs bag. She had used the word âiconicâ, too. And there was Lindsey, swinging one on her finger in front of me. It had been Natalieâs plan to go to MoMA late on a Friday, when it was pay-what-you-wish, and thatâs what Lindsey and I had done. I made it seem like my idea. Natalie would never know about that. But the LittleBrown Bag would be packed carefully, taken home, witnessed. It seemed cruel for a moment. Lindsey didnât like Natalie and hadnât tried to hide it.
But I kept that complicated thought to myself and kept the argument about money, the waste of twenty precious dollars on a paper bag. Lindsey wasnât stealing Natalieâs dream. The Bloomingdaleâs experience was her own. Then she saw my hair. I hadnât needed a haircut, not really, but it was the Chelsea and Iâd taken the opportunity. I surrendered the argument then and there.
âYou should wear the brooch,â I told her. âIt looks good.â She had it in her hand, still partly wrapped in its tissue paper. âYou should wear it now.â
We bought salads from Zabarâs and picnicked in the park, watching kids hitting baseballs, practising, practising. We made it to YankeeStadium, too, later that week, and sat way up in the bleachers, facing the sun the whole game, but it was the Yankees and nineteen years later we still have the photo in a frame.
âMust be coming from the top,â Mr Lopez says, his eyes on the lift doors, our buckled gold reflections.
With that, thereâs a muted electronic tone, then a hum as the doors part.
âAt His Serviceâ is on lower ground, one floor down. A cleaner is polishing the glass countertop at Salvatore Ferragamo. There are designer boutiques on either side of the aisleâZegna, Armani, Michael Kors, Hugo Boss. The rubber soles of Mr Lopezâ boots squeak softly on the tiles in a rhythm built long ago into his stride and no more audible to him, Iâm sure, than his own heartbeat.
âAt His Serviceâ is set discreetly away from the aisle, though nothing could be more discreetthan being the only customer in a department store thatâs already closed. Itâs the voices that let me know weâre getting close, a young male, âI donât think so,â and a softer deferential murmur in reply.
Nati Boi is sitting on a plush red Louis XIV chaise lounge, his rapperâs jacket slung over the gilt-turned arm with a baseball cap set on top of it. Below his right eye, he has a scar thatâs wider than it should be, like a small pale pink pair of lips or a kiss, with the dots of failed sutures along its edges. Thereâs a line of whiskery boyâs moustache running along his upper lip. His hair is gathered in tight cornrows, ending in coloured beads. He looks younger than nineteen, younger than his photos, as if heâs still growing into the trackpants that balloon around his invisible legs. He looks like a kid who has borrowed from his big brotherâs wardrobe and been told to sit there, and sit still, while a parent attends to somebusiness nearby. He never had that life though, I know that much.
Behind him is a cabinet with cufflinks and tie bars set in trays. On the countertop, thereâs a steel bucket with two glass bowls of frozen yoghurt sitting in
And I was thinking of Natalie, the girl I had broken up with to be with Lindsey and who had suggested the New York trip in the first place. She had a wish list that included the Museum of Modern Art, meeting particular graphic novelists and New Yorker cover artists, and buying something that came in a Bloomingdaleâs bag. She had used the word âiconicâ, too. And there was Lindsey, swinging one on her finger in front of me. It had been Natalieâs plan to go to MoMA late on a Friday, when it was pay-what-you-wish, and thatâs what Lindsey and I had done. I made it seem like my idea. Natalie would never know about that. But the LittleBrown Bag would be packed carefully, taken home, witnessed. It seemed cruel for a moment. Lindsey didnât like Natalie and hadnât tried to hide it.
But I kept that complicated thought to myself and kept the argument about money, the waste of twenty precious dollars on a paper bag. Lindsey wasnât stealing Natalieâs dream. The Bloomingdaleâs experience was her own. Then she saw my hair. I hadnât needed a haircut, not really, but it was the Chelsea and Iâd taken the opportunity. I surrendered the argument then and there.
âYou should wear the brooch,â I told her. âIt looks good.â She had it in her hand, still partly wrapped in its tissue paper. âYou should wear it now.â
We bought salads from Zabarâs and picnicked in the park, watching kids hitting baseballs, practising, practising. We made it to YankeeStadium, too, later that week, and sat way up in the bleachers, facing the sun the whole game, but it was the Yankees and nineteen years later we still have the photo in a frame.
âMust be coming from the top,â Mr Lopez says, his eyes on the lift doors, our buckled gold reflections.
With that, thereâs a muted electronic tone, then a hum as the doors part.
âAt His Serviceâ is on lower ground, one floor down. A cleaner is polishing the glass countertop at Salvatore Ferragamo. There are designer boutiques on either side of the aisleâZegna, Armani, Michael Kors, Hugo Boss. The rubber soles of Mr Lopezâ boots squeak softly on the tiles in a rhythm built long ago into his stride and no more audible to him, Iâm sure, than his own heartbeat.
âAt His Serviceâ is set discreetly away from the aisle, though nothing could be more discreetthan being the only customer in a department store thatâs already closed. Itâs the voices that let me know weâre getting close, a young male, âI donât think so,â and a softer deferential murmur in reply.
Nati Boi is sitting on a plush red Louis XIV chaise lounge, his rapperâs jacket slung over the gilt-turned arm with a baseball cap set on top of it. Below his right eye, he has a scar thatâs wider than it should be, like a small pale pink pair of lips or a kiss, with the dots of failed sutures along its edges. Thereâs a line of whiskery boyâs moustache running along his upper lip. His hair is gathered in tight cornrows, ending in coloured beads. He looks younger than nineteen, younger than his photos, as if heâs still growing into the trackpants that balloon around his invisible legs. He looks like a kid who has borrowed from his big brotherâs wardrobe and been told to sit there, and sit still, while a parent attends to somebusiness nearby. He never had that life though, I know that much.
Behind him is a cabinet with cufflinks and tie bars set in trays. On the countertop, thereâs a steel bucket with two glass bowls of frozen yoghurt sitting in
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