It was just like what we had, growing up so long ago in our own corners of the city. A decent pub.
That familiar daylight seeping in, the dark wood blanketing the walls, those high stools you slip onto as a feeling of greater kinder hands rises up to greet your tush and cradle you.
It was empty except for some guys scattered along the bar. Two were doing construction in the neighborhood, finishing up their burgers. Another, very tan and summery, contemplating going or not going or someone coming in, and in a quieter corner a man older than any bar I ever sat at, just sitting.
A talkative fellow came in, wanting to see the lunch menu.
"Lunch menu same as the dinner one," the waitress told him.
Mick ordered a really good looking chicken sandwich.
I had salmon on lots of salad. I stared longingly at Mick's fries. His beer looked really cute too.
MY PRIVATE CONEY presents IT WAS HER NEW YORK, the short stories that accompany the work-in-progress video and photo collection of the same name (myprivateconey.com - media link - IT WAS HER NEW YORK). The stories and the media explore the tender rubble that holds both my mother, Florence's and New York's soul as one disappears into old age and the other into gentrification. All are real observations and/or experiences with very little tall-tale telling.
Except when it makes the story better.
Please visit myprivateconey.com for additional information and sample works.