The coffeshop buzzes with late afternoon freelance energy, manic Macintosh laptops oozing busy and important. The three older Jewish gentlemen are unfussed by this self-importance, arranging themselves in a tight corner and instantly demanding every attention through their vivid conversation. Do you know why they call in Manhattan? he asks his friends and in the same breath exclaims Wrong! They orate at each other, trivia from hours of poring over the truths of the world. Coffee arrives, and the old hippie in the corner pulls out an orange presciption pill bottle. It's cinnamon, he heaves at his companions, I put it on everything. I put it on tuna, did you ever put it on tuna, Ira? Ira looks at him with an implied eye roll. Putting cinnamon on tuna is like putting ketchup on ice cream, he ends the conversation and carries on speaking about the stars on the American flag.
We look at each other across the laptop screens. No one will believe us, we mouth at each other, knowing exactly what the other means. This is why we live in New York. The men go on to talk of growing up in West Bronx, of Brooklyn accents and how the Torah comes full circle like a magic trick, and you think, the world is still out here, we are still out here, everything has changed and yet the magic of human beings has not.
Ira gets up from his chair, makes an abrupt and important exit. The bar returns to its unencumbered buzz, I return to the myriad of tasks on my to do list.
Pocket the gift for later.
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