On July 19, 1997, my life, which had been going pretty darn well, took a turn for the even better. Along with my roommate and bandmate Jeff, I cohosted a Regressives "fan appreciation party" on the roof of my apartment in Hell's Kitchen. In fact, I still have a copy of the invitation, which promised an "early morning dogpile on John Schneider" (unless I'm confusing that with one of our New Year's parties).
I'll spare you the details since this is a family blog, but suffice it to say that at approximately 7:15 PM, a petite Asian woman wearing expensive sunglasses, a dayglo lavender miniskirt, and 5-inch platform shoes knocked on my apartment door. Already feeling in good spirits, I opened the door with a sweeping, dramatic gesture and proclaimed, "It's the woman from the deli!" She must have been wondering whether she had the right apartment because I was the only one there; everyone else was up on the roof. In retrospect, I'm amazed and relieved that she didn't make an immediate about face and flee down the stairs (for once, I was thankful to be living on the top floor--plus, it would have been tough for her to negotiate my building's rickety, uneven staircase in those platforms).
Fortunately, the woman did stay, and when we got to talking later, we just couldn't seem to stop. We were so focused on each other that after several hours we barely noticed that the party had broken up. Still, we stayed up talking into the wee small hours of the morning (as Sinatra sang), until it was time for her to head back to work to open the deli at 6:00 AM. Contrary to my reticent character, I had boldly procured a date by betting her that I could find an item in the deli whose price she could not name (something she had assured me was impossible). It was win/win for me. The date was on; the only question was who would pay (she did).
It strains credulity to think that that was 14 years ago, but at the same time it may as well have been another lifetime ago. I was a young, aspiring (i.e., struggling) musician in New York City, and now I'm a not-so-young, aspiring (i.e., struggling) seminary student in Princeton. Sandy (who else could it be?) no longer has the miniskirt. Well, that's not exactly true. Ever resourceful, she cut it up years ago and repurposed it into a headband. Still, I can't help but look back on that day and smile, because it's the woman from the deli who knocked on my apartment door and burst into my life.
I'll spare you the details since this is a family blog, but suffice it to say that at approximately 7:15 PM, a petite Asian woman wearing expensive sunglasses, a dayglo lavender miniskirt, and 5-inch platform shoes knocked on my apartment door. Already feeling in good spirits, I opened the door with a sweeping, dramatic gesture and proclaimed, "It's the woman from the deli!" She must have been wondering whether she had the right apartment because I was the only one there; everyone else was up on the roof. In retrospect, I'm amazed and relieved that she didn't make an immediate about face and flee down the stairs (for once, I was thankful to be living on the top floor--plus, it would have been tough for her to negotiate my building's rickety, uneven staircase in those platforms).
Fortunately, the woman did stay, and when we got to talking later, we just couldn't seem to stop. We were so focused on each other that after several hours we barely noticed that the party had broken up. Still, we stayed up talking into the wee small hours of the morning (as Sinatra sang), until it was time for her to head back to work to open the deli at 6:00 AM. Contrary to my reticent character, I had boldly procured a date by betting her that I could find an item in the deli whose price she could not name (something she had assured me was impossible). It was win/win for me. The date was on; the only question was who would pay (she did).
It strains credulity to think that that was 14 years ago, but at the same time it may as well have been another lifetime ago. I was a young, aspiring (i.e., struggling) musician in New York City, and now I'm a not-so-young, aspiring (i.e., struggling) seminary student in Princeton. Sandy (who else could it be?) no longer has the miniskirt. Well, that's not exactly true. Ever resourceful, she cut it up years ago and repurposed it into a headband. Still, I can't help but look back on that day and smile, because it's the woman from the deli who knocked on my apartment door and burst into my life.
Who knew Sandy was a Regressives fan!? :)
ReplyDeleteSeems as though it wasn't too long afterwards that you called to share thoughts about this lovely young woman you'd met, and how you enjoyed getting to know one another. (Also how pretty she was (is) ... how smart ... how artistically talented ... how you wanted us to meet her!)
ReplyDeleteMeet her we did, and understood what you'd been talking about. Sandy is a treasured member of our family; she's added to the joy already here.
Love, 'Anonymous' aka Mom :)
I had no idea your mom's name was Anonymous...
ReplyDelete@ Sylvia: When we were younger, or should I say, when I was a young man, Sandy would often say, in reference to the Regressives, "You're not alright." This filled me with self doubt, as I thought that it might be time to say so long to my dream of being a musician. But Sandy considered that an overreaction: "Why would you cry?" she asked bemusedly. "Making it in NYC isn't child's play. Maybe you just need to try a little harder." While truer words were never spoken, all I could think was, "What an ....
ReplyDelete@ Heeman: It made having my report card signed especially challenging.
@Heeman: I always signed it 'MRS. Anonymous' to avoid confusion.
ReplyDelete