My Neighborhood

A man hails me on the street. I say hello.

He says, "What're you doing up here."

"I live just down the street."

"You should be down in the East Village. Ain't nobody up here but niggers, crackheads and prostitutes."

"I like it here," say I, "You know Clinton's up here too."

"Yeah. Nothing we can do about that."

The woman in Harlem Vintage is trying to help us find a good house red for The Home. She takes us all over the store and tells us stories about each bottle. It smells nice there. The wine we selected is not It.

The $6 white we found behind the bullet-proof plexiglass in the store next to the laundromat is quite nice. Not much body, but a great floral finish.

Another day, a man recognizes me in the post office. "You're the 3rd violinist for the Metropolitan Orchestra."

Well, no I'm not.

"You two look like brothers or something."

No, Tom and I are not brothers. We don't even look that much alike. Lots of people have goatees.

"Do you live around here?"

Yes, on 112th Street.

"That's nice, you can see the park from there."

Tom is on to him, however, "Yes, it is nice."

We can't actually see the park. But you've got to keep your wits about you. I mean, this is Manhattanville.