On the Corner of Greenwich and 6th

I had no intention of wandering tonight. It’s an early day tomorrow, and after a hangover that zapped much of my energy, I needed the rest. But there I was, sitting on a florist shop stoop at the intersection of Greenwich and 6th Ave, a wad of Starbucks napkins on my though, a Papermate I bought from a bodega in my hand.

A woman had smiled at me on the N train earlier. It was one of those moments where strangers make eye contact, in spite of themselves, and the instinct is to politely smile, perhaps even nod, or flat out ignore, maybe scowl. The first two I did, and her response was the warmest, kindest smile, entirely unexpected. I was stunned by this, almost embarrassed by her unnecessary acknowledgment, but moved nonetheless. Restlessness kicked in and, getting off at Union Square, I went the opposite direction of the L train, ascending into the nearly abandoned quad. Making my way south on Broadway, then west on 11th, south on University, then west again on 7th, I wandered. Just wandered, no particular destination in mind, no plan, no consideration of how I would maneuver my way home. I should be in bed, or more accurately, on the couch in front of Netflix, watching that episode of King of the Hill where Peggy confesses to having slept with a gay man (he was not broken, just gay, very, very gay).

Somewhere between 5th and 6th Aves, floating over the sound of traffic in the West Village at the early stages of a Saturday night, I caught the random notes of a saxophone. Turning south onto 6th, I had to search for the source, first noting the neon Gray’s Papaya sign that had been the site of a hate crime the night before. A normally controllable superstitious paranoia kicked into overdrive, and I was close to high-tailing it, lest an encore take place and I, with my luck, end up in the crosshairs. My last words to my mother had been “I’ve got to go, I’m at the bar now,” and to my roommates it was something about orange juice or the bathroom. All fitting epitaphs.

But across the street from where two cops still stood, a grim reminder that wasn’t aiding my unfounded fears, playing away at a melody that was just familiar enough, yet barely out of my grasp, was a saxophonist.

When I was in sixth grade, I wanted to play the saxophone. My only reasoning for this was that Lisa Simpson played the sax and, perhaps in a telling moment of identifying most with the little girl with pearls and a skirt, I wanted to do the same. Nevermind that I had (have) no aptitude at the instrument or knowledge of jazz or any variation thereof. (As a point of interest, and to answer a question I have no doubt you are asking yourself, I ended up playing the trumpet, at which I put in minimal practice, and was one of only three instruments stolen from the classroom later that year, never to be recovered. The next day I was given a rusted replacement, the physical embodiment of my skill at the piece; this would also be the day I first recognized the universe’s knack at subtle reminders and cruel sense of humor, mocking a pre-adolescent boy of yet-to-be-determined sexuality. But I digress.) It wasn’t until my Sophomore year of high school, that I first took notice of Jazz. It could have been the success of the recently released Chicago musical film, or the required reading of The Great Gatsby that was dog-eared and collecting dust on my nightstand. But after what was even at the time a grossly humorous recording of a Japanese jazz quartet crooning “Night and Day” on public radio, I attacked the music with the fervor of an alcoholic discovering religion. (A cheap shot.) Every album I could get my hands on at the library was ripped into my personal collection. In college, I focused on Ella and Billie, Piaf, Vaughan, to say nothing of Armstrong, Coltrane, and to a lesser extent, Davis. The result was insufferable, me sharing with anyone was idiotic enough to give me the time, an entirely uneducated lecture on the art. I didn’t really know anything about Jazz, just that I liked it.

Somewhere in that posturing was a genuine love, a response to it. This would explain why, during a Scene Study rehearsal with my then not-yet roommate and best friend, from the first recital of it, the Gershwin “Someone to Watch over Me” would kick me in the gut, despite not entirely understanding it (yet). Any number of New York-based films that employed these artists were films I had to own immediately, to say nothing of the soundtracks. On the way to a first date, crossing the Williamsburg Bridge, the sun  setting and Manhattan glowing through the train window, I was rendered as speechless as I was by that woman’s warm smile, when Ella’s “Every Time We Say Goodbye” came on my iPod. Woody Allen couldn’t have planned a more perfect moment; it didn’t hurt that I was wearing Diane Keaton’s signature vest and tie, having left my floppy hat at home. (I’m jut kidding; I don’t own a floppy hat.) (And as for that first date, it was good enough, and there was a second date, but no third. No further details are necessary.) A late night stroll through Chelsea on a cold March night saw an intermission of me standing at the corner of 23rd and 8th, swaying to Coltrane’s “Nancy (With the Laughing Face).” A manufactured moment of romanticism on my part perhaps, but one that provided a much-needed reminder of the overblown notions and ideals that fueled my move to New York City in the first place.

So it makes sense, in hindsight, that I’d find myself standing, leaning against a street lamp, mindful not to give the appearance of prostitution (again, a paranoid feat that history would repeat itself), listening to this saxophone. I recognized maybe every third song, catching myself humming along with some of them. I have an early day in the morning, the headache characteristic of my hangover was back in full-force, and I undoubtedly looked ridiculous, hunched over a napkin, scribbling and scratching away, in time to “My Funny Valentine.” The thought did cross my mind that had I been Allen Ginsberg, doing this would’ve given me an air of prestige. In my cardigan, tie, and converses, I instead just looked pretentious, and rightly so.

There’s a segment in the film Paris, Je T’aime, directed by Alexander Payne, wherein Margo Martindale plays an American tourist detailing her trip to Paris. The closing scene, a beautiful long shot of a park as Martindale watches from a bench, is accompanied by the narration of Martindale intoning “All I can say is that I felt, at the same time, joy and sadness. But not too much sadness, because I felt alive. Yes, alive. That was the moment I fell in love with Paris. And I felt Paris fall in love with me.” If you haven’t seen it, YouTube “14e Arrondissement” immediately. That, and “Tuileries”, a contribution from the Coen Bros, featuring Steve Buscemi as a hapless American in a Metro station; hilarity ensues.

After about 20 minutes, it occurred to me that I’d been treated to a free concert, and feeling guilted by the memory of a recent photo displaying a sign stating that jazz musicians deserve funding, I fished out a dollar that I had and deposited it into his case, with a request.

“Do you know ‘Someone to Watch Over Me’?”

“No, sorry.”

“Any Gershwin or Berlin?” There was that pretentious posturing, lightly peeking out.

“Off the top of my head, no.”

I sat back down, as he continued to play, watching people walking by. An elderly couple strolling, holding hands; a homeless man with two pens (perhaps Papermates, perhaps Bic) in his ears; a first (or perhaps second) date. The street light turned green, then yellow, red, then green again. The thought that I still had to put away my laundry occurred to me, and I made a mental note, but quickly forgot it as I watched an ambulance, moaning it’s way downtown. It all felt like it belonged in a movie, one of those films I readily embraced just by virtue of it matching the romanticized idea I had of the city.

Then, as his final number, the saxophonist began to play, and after a few notes I recognized the melody of “Every Time We Say Goodbye.” That moment on the Williamsburg Bridge, the woman on the N train, that 6th grade acknowledgement of the universe’s long-standing memory and subtle reminders, the corner of 23rd and 8th, all of it rushed by. So he at least knew Cole Porter. When he had finished, the saxophonist packed up his instrument, counted his bills, thanked me for listening, and strolled south on 6th.

I still had laundry to do, a headache to nurse.

But for the moment, I was enjoying the immediately recognizable tune of the West Village at 11:00 on a Saturday night, a love song if I’ve ever heard one.

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