Robert DeNiro was not to be found the day I visited.
Taking the A train last week, dozing a bit, I am suddenly aware of the smell of….curry? Not yummy-like-you’re-in-a-restaurant curry, but that leftover, microwave overheated smell. Two women across from me are eating some stinky spicy wrap thing, lettuce shreds spilling out onto the floor. Frankly, after touching the turnstile and the grab pole, the last thing I want to put in my mouth is something my hand just touched. But New Yorkers are pressed for time. We have to rush here and there, so eating on the run is acceptable. Generally, though, on the train you want to avoid stuff that smells. Fritoes, for example.
I was heading to a job interview in the village on MacDougal street. A voice teacher and professor whose office is in his home, a third floor walk-up. Jose, the maintenance man let me into the building. I got to the third floor apartment and pushed the little gold doorbell. An arty looking older man with a shiny head welcomed me in. The apartment was bright, with a wall of windows. I thought it probably hadn’t changed since the ‘50s. Small, charming, with yellow walls. Not post-it note yellow, but a deep, warm color. Lots of antique rugs lay across the floors, which had developed a dark patina over the years. A cat scratcher was on the floor next to a baby grand piano, that was covered with an old violet-colored drape. It sat, too big for the space, in front of the white painted paned windows. I admired the iconic rooftop view of the back of apartment buildings with their retro, rusty fire escapes (these are called backyards in New York.)
The atmosphere was cozy, arty. I was in The Village in an apartment, I imagined, not unlike one where Willem deKooning or Mark Rothko might have hosted parties and readings, exchanging ideas and opinions, drinking wine and smoking cigarettes. I was lost in 1959…. My host offered me tea and we sat in comfy old chairs. One of his cats walked in, skinny and probably dying, he said. They don’t know why, but then, he is 15 years old so…..his voice trailed off. He showed me the small, cramped office and all the files and phone books and remnants of an earlier era. He needed help. Filing, among other things. We talked about the position available and he said he had two other people to interview. That’s usually the nail in my coffin. For some reason, I come off well in the interview but then some other candidate after me is perfect and I lose the job. I’m still waiting for a response from a job I interview I had in October (I know…but she hasn’t gotten back to me so I still see an ember on the ashes.) I have learned not to get my hopes up. I would rather think the worst and have a positive outcome than get all charged up and be disappointed. We said good bye, I thanked him and he thanked me.
Across the street a charming little coffee shop was calling to me. It was a chilly morning and I decided to reward myself with an Americano and a scone. I got a Rosemary currant scone, the last one, and a small coffee, and thought I’d hang around, but all the tables were taken. So I headed back home and ate my scone on the train – untouched by human hands, of course – my mouth buried deep in the little white bag I held with my gloved hands, possibly looking emotionally disturbed. But at least scones don’t stink. And I got the job.