City of Second Chances

by Jane Lacey-Crane

  *

  Out on the street I decided to go ‘old school’ and I carefully unfolded the map that was tucked handily inside my guidebook. I knew where I was and the general direction I wanted to head – Uptown – but I had no more specific plans than that. The East River was somewhere behind Kate’s building, so I decided to turn left out of the door and go to the corner of the street, and then turn right and just keep walking. I’d told Rachel I would be back by lunchtime, so I couldn’t really venture too far, but it would be enough for my first little foray into the Big Apple and now I had a mission – breakfast and then finding a shop to purchase a swanky new notebook and pen.

  I was so excited to be walking the streets that I found myself grinning like a fool at anyone that walked past me. Most of them looked at me as if I were nuts, but a few smiled back at me. I passed red brick blocks of tenement flats, each adorned with row upon row of iconic metal fire escapes. At street level most of these buildings housed dry cleaners, nail salons, or the occasional corner grocery store; it was only when you looked up that things became interesting. Graffiti, billboards, shop signs written in languages I couldn’t understand, posters telling me to ‘See more NYC, be more NYC!’ I felt inspired; I did want to be more NYC, I suddenly thought, whatever the heck that meant. I was so engrossed in looking up that I almost got mown down by a taxi. I stepped out into the road without looking properly and was treated to some of the foulest language I’d ever had thrown at me. I was impressed by the variety and graphic nature of his imagery – that cabbie had quite the vocabulary. If we’d been in London I would probably have been appalled and embarrassed, but I was in New York; it was all part of the experience. I considered it a rite of passage, like riding the subway, getting hopelessly lost and visiting the Statue of Liberty.

  It was fair to say that I didn’t think I could get any happier at that moment, but I was wrong. Turning the corner, I saw the most beautiful sight in the world: a diner. Complete with shiny chrome frontage and red neon signs in the window, it was the embodiment of every diner I’d ever seen in movies or on TV. I pulled out my phone and took a picture, ignoring the huffing and puffing from the people around me. Crossing the street, making sure I looked where I was going this time, I pulled open the door. With its black and white tiled floor and bright red countertop that ran along the left-hand side of the space, it was like stepping onto a movie set. There were booths on the right-hand side, next to the windows, but I opted to sit on one of the stools at the counter. I was undoubtedly grinning like an idiot again, a fact that was confirmed by my waitress’s first comment.

  ‘Are you drunk, honey? You look way too happy for this time in the morning.’

  ‘I’m not drunk,’ I replied.

  ‘Oh, I get it. You’re from England, am I right?’ she said, as if that explained everything.

  ‘Um, yes, I am.’ I didn’t know whether to be insulted or not.

  ‘You guys always get that same dumb look on your faces when you come into a place like this. I’ll bet you feel like you’re in a movie, don’tcha?’

  I couldn’t decide if she was being nasty or just stating a fact; I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  ‘I suppose it must seem ridiculous to you,’ I replied, with an apologetic shrug.

  She sighed. ‘Nah. I get it. When I went to London with my husband I spent the whole time thinking I was in a Jane Austen novel. You’re all so polite and proper. And everywhere you look it’s like a history lesson.’

  I smiled. ‘I suppose it is. I’m just excited to be back here.’

  ‘You been here before?’

  ‘Yes, only once. But that was over twenty years ago, though.’

  She let out a whistle. ‘Well, things have changed a bit since then. Can I start you off with some coffee?’ She lifted the pot she was holding, and I nodded.

  ‘Yes, please. And I know what I want to order, too,’ I said eagerly. The smells coming from the kitchen behind the counter were making me feel faint with hunger.

  ‘Okay, sure, g’ahead.’

  ‘I want a stack of pancakes, a jug of maple syrup and some bacon, please.’

  My waitress grinned as she poured my cup of coffee. ‘Sure thing, sweetheart. I’m Judy,’ she said, tapping her name badge with a bright pink fingernail. ‘I’ll be right back with your order.’ She wandered off down to the other end of the counter, topping up coffee mugs as she went. I sneaked a quick glance along the row of customers; I was the only woman sitting at the counter. Had I made a terrible faux pas? I wondered. Were single ladies expected to sit in a booth? Was that more respectable? Screw respectable, came the voice in my head. Who wants to be respectable?

  I poured milk into my coffee and took a sip. It was hot, and it was strong, and it wasn’t half bad. I took out my guidebook and skipped to the pages about shopping. I leafed through page after page listing designer boutiques and high end department stores, but I couldn’t find what I was looking for – I wanted a bookshop. And not just any old bookshop – I wanted one that was piled high with books on every conceivable subject, with second-hand books sitting side by side with new books. I craved the smell of old paper, slightly damp and a bit musty, that only a preloved book could provide. But I couldn’t seem to find what I was looking for in the guidebook. With a growing sense of annoyance, I closed the book and shoved it back in my bag, just as Judy returned with my order. Three enormous pancakes, adorned with a generous knob of butter and four crispy slices of bacon, wobbled slightly on the plate as she set it down in front of me. Next came a battered metal jug of maple syrup and cutlery wrapped in a paper napkin. I think I might have dribbled slightly at the sight of it. I looked up at Judy to say thank you and I saw she was trying to suppress a giggle.

  ‘It’s okay, you can say it. You’ve never seen someone so excited by bacon and pancakes,’ I said, with a grin.

  ‘You look like a kid at Christmas!’ she exclaimed.

  I shrugged and poured half of Canada’s daily output of maple syrup onto the pile of fluffy pancakes, before cutting into the stack and shoving a forkful into my mouth. I groaned out loud.

  ‘Honey, if you’re gonna have an orgasm, you’re in the wrong deli. You want Katz’s up on East Houston,’ said Judy. ‘You can go full on When Harry Met Sally in there.’

  I wiped syrup off my chin with my napkin. ‘Sorry, was that a bit loud?’ I looked around at the other diners, none of whom seemed the slightest bit interested in me and my love of pancakes. ‘These are just so-o-o good,’ I said, ‘I couldn’t help it.’

  ‘Hey, Joe,’ Judy called out towards the kitchen, ‘this lady says your pancakes are better than sex!’

  An old man in a white paper hat stuck his head through the serving window behind the counter. He had olive skin and a thin moustache; he looked to be at least seventy.

  ‘If that’s true, sweetheart, you gotta be doing it all wrong.’ He winked at me and then disappeared back into the kitchen. I felt myself blush and Judy laughed out loud, slamming her hand down onto the counter.

  ‘You should see your face! That’s so funny.’ She chuckled, leaving me to finish my sexy pancakes whilst she topped up some more coffee mugs. She came around the counter, chatting easily to the customers she served, making them laugh or putting a friendly hand on their shoulder. She wore a simple black polo shirt and jeans under her white apron, but the rest of her outfit gave a much better idea of Judy’s true character. On her feet, the toes of her white canvas tennis shoes were covered with sparkly pink crystals and the laces were glittery pink ribbons. Her blonde hair was piled high on her head, pinned in place with crystal covered hairgrips, and in her earlobes she had what could best be described as mini chandeliers. They jingled as she moved her head, sending little sparkles of rainbow light across her cheeks. Her nails were shocking pink and a length that I imagined would stop you from being able to pick anything up, but Judy managed. She went from jotting down orders, to tapping numbers into the till, to serving plates of food, with
ease and grace. I watched her, in between mouthfuls of my breakfast, wishing that I’d bought that notebook before I came in. I could feel the odd stirrings of an idea forming in my brain.

  Judy came back around behind the counter and slotted the coffee pot back onto its stand before turning to face me.

  ‘Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s rude to stare?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry. Was I that obvious? I didn’t mean to be rude – it’s just that you seem so comfortable in your job. You look like you’ve been doing it forever.’

  ‘I’m just messing with ya. I’ve been here for the last forty years, give or take. I took some time off when I had each of my kids, but I always came back. Joe’s a good guy to work for. A little crusty but he’s okay. What about you? What do you do back in England?’

  ‘Well, up until very recently I worked in an office for a woman I can’t stand, and I spent most of my day doing her job for her without getting any of the credit.’

  Judy wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘Why the hell would you do that? You seem like a nice, intelligent lady. Why would you be wasting your time working for someone who doesn’t appreciate ya?’

  When she put it like that, it didn’t make a lot of sense to me either. ‘I don’t know. I had kids to bring up and bills to pay. I guess I stayed because I didn’t think I had any other choice.’

  ‘What about your husband? He can’t be happy that you work for someone so awful.’

  ‘He’s not around any more.’ I never knew how to respond to that. Even ten years after his death, I still didn’t know the best way to drop that into a conversation. I was always conscious of embarrassing the person I was speaking to, of making them feel bad for bringing it up. Stupid really.

  ‘Divorced?’

  I didn’t reply. Judy placed her hand over her heart. ‘Dead?’

  I just nodded and waited for the mumbled apologies or uncomfortable silence followed by a swift exit that usually followed that revelation. But obviously New Yorkers did things differently. Judy came around the counter to me and pulled me into her arms. She smelled like fried food and cigarettes, and I’d never felt more comforted and safe than I did for the brief moments she had me in that embrace. I felt sharp tears pricking the backs of my eyes and when she eventually pulled away, holding me at arm’s length, I wanted to pull her back towards me and cry into her ample chest. She pulled a napkin from the holder on the counter and gave it to me. I dabbed at my eyes and then blew my nose.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t know what came over me. It must be jet lag.’

  Judy shook her head. ‘It’s not jet lag, honey, it’s grief. It never really goes away.’ It was Judy’s turn to look sad, and the penny dropped.

  ‘When did your husband die?’ I asked.

  ‘Five years ago. He was a cop.’

  Now it was my turn to hand Judy a tissue. ‘Thanks, honey. He’d just got off work, he was finished for the day. He went into a liquor store for some cigarettes and walked in on some kid trying to rob the place. The kid panicked and shot him.’ Judy sat down onto the stool next to me. ‘Bet you didn’t think this was gonna happen when you stopped in here for breakfast this morning?’

  The strangeness of the situation wasn’t lost on me and I started to laugh. Judy joined in and pretty soon we were giggling hysterically. Joe stuck his head back out of the servery.

  ‘Are you gonna sit there cackling away or are you gonna serve the customers?’

  ‘Simmer down, I’m going, I’m going.’ Judy stood up, straightened her apron and then kissed me on the cheek. ‘You should think about what I said. Life’s too short to spend it doing something you hate. You gotta live for the now. It’s all any of us have got.’

  Holy shit, I thought, I came in for pancakes and I’m leaving with a brand new outlook on life. Not bad for nine dollars plus tax and a tip. I rummaged around in my bag for my purse, pulling out a twenty dollar bill and placing it on the counter. Judy looked at it and then at me, before sliding it back towards me.

  ‘It’s on the house. Consider it a welcome to New York gift. From me to you.’

  ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly… I—’

  ‘Forget about it. Maybe I’ll see you again for breakfast while you’re here. I’ll expect a generous tip if you come back.’ She smiled at me. ‘Now, get going. We got lots of things for you to see here. Get out there and enjoy yourself.’

  ‘I’m going to, Judy, don’t you worry. But first I need some advice – where’s the nearest bookshop?’

  *

  Suffice to say, my new friend and life coach, Judy, had been slightly taken aback by my desire to find a bookshop.

  ‘You got all these amazin’ places to go here, and you want a bookstore? You English people are so fuckin’ weird.’

  Nevertheless, Judy had pointed me in the direction of The Book Nook. It was two floors of new and old books in Greenwich Village, about half an hour’s walk away from the diner. After the warmth of the restaurant, the freezing temperatures outside were a bit of a shock to the system. I pulled my hat down on my head to cover my ears and tried to tuck my hair underneath, without much success. Dark curly strands kept escaping and, in the end, I gave up. I wrapped my scarf around my neck, tucking it into my coat around my chin, and I started walking. Within minutes, a few stray flakes of snow began to fall, and I contemplated turning around and heading back to Kate’s apartment. I checked my watch; it was just after eight thirty, and I decided to keep going. If I went back to the flat now, I’d likely just have to sit there whilst the poor cleaning lady dusted and vacuumed around me, I thought, and I didn’t want to do that.

  I carried on walking, following the directions Judy had given me. I passed through Little Italy and up onto East Houston Street. I saw Katz’s deli, the place made famous by Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally, just as Judy had said. I smiled to myself at the thought I might have sounded like I was mid-orgasm whilst eating pancakes. Closest thing I’d come to that kind of pleasure for a while, I thought. Maybe a battery operated boyfriend was something I ought to consider? Although it wasn’t on my list of things I wanted to buy on this trip. There was no way I’d be taking the risk of that getting pulled out of my case as I went through Customs.

  ‘Anything to declare, madam?’

  ‘Only this massive rubber penis, Officer.’

  The embarrassment would kill me.

  The snow had started falling more heavily now. The little flakes had started clumping together and forming tiny snow drifts along the edge of the kerb. Maybe I should have gone back to the flat. My natural tendency towards pessimism was starting to kick in but I ignored the voice in my head that was telling me this was a stupid idea. I pushed on, turning the corner at the end of East Houston and onto Broadway. There, on the other side of the road, was my own little nirvana: The Book Nook. It took up one corner of the block, its green awning wrapping around it, emblazoned with the shop name. There was no mistaking it, but from where I stood it was obvious it wasn’t open yet. Inside the shop it was dark, although the displays in the windows were lit. I crossed the street and pressed my nose up against the glass. There was a display of vintage crime paperbacks, with the well-thumbed pages and dog-eared covers a testament to how well loved they’d been. Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett sat happily alongside more obscure titles from authors I’d never heard of. No matter what the plots, all the covers seemed to have one thing in common – the blonde femme fatale, clad in figure hugging skirt and blouse and clutching a pistol she’d undoubtedly just whipped out of her knickers. I couldn’t wait to get inside and have a good old rummage around. I was glad that I was here by myself; Rachel would never have let me spend ages in a bookshop. Her plans for shopping would undoubtedly have leant more towards the designer handbags end of the scale. But not mine; shops like these were where I was happiest. If you could have thrown in a vintage clothes store and some second-hand furniture, it would have been my idea of heaven.

  The sign on the outside
told me the store didn’t open until nine; I needed to find somewhere warm to wait for the next ten minutes or so. It was way too cold to just hang about outside. Just up the street I spotted a branch of a well-known coffee shop chain. Putting my head down against the biting wind, I walked towards it. The windows were reassuringly steamy, and I pushed open the door – straight into an enormous queue of people. The man in front of me turned and tutted as the door edge whacked into his oversized backpack.

  ‘Oops, sorry,’ I muttered, wedging myself against the wall as I closed the door behind me. There were tables and chairs, all packed with people. Everyone seemed to have an Apple laptop open in front of them, and they were all tapping away intently. In fact, apart from the noises of coffee being made and served, the sound of fingertips tapping away on keyboards was the only other sound. No chatting and certainly no laughing. Everyone was focussed purely on their own little bubble. It might have been full of humans, but there was no heart. Not like Judy’s diner. That place might have been old, a bit run-down and more than a little cheesy, but I’d felt welcome there. I was about to turn and leave when the door opened again, and two other people joined the queue behind me. I was wedged between Mr Giant Phallic Backpack and two young men with hipster beards and beanie hats.