The Avenues

A New York love story in 3 parts

It’s Emma’s and my 20th wedding anniversary this week, so here are three little recollections.

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2026: Avenue B
We are tourists now in our old city, our teen daughter scanning for thrift shops, her younger brother looking for graffiti to shoot with his camera. Emma and I are stuck in a cringey loop of trying to convince these two die-hard skeptics that we once had lives here, before them.

“My band played at this place,” I tell the kids, motioning toward what is now some kind of gourmet cheese market. “There was a stage in the back. I guess it’s hard to picture now.” They don’t bother to look. It’s like I’m telling them about a dream.

“I used to write in that coffee shop,” Emma says, looking across the street. “And then we’d go to that dive bar for drinks.” When this, too, is met with their silence, I pat her shoulder encouragingly.

A few blocks from here, I danced with my friends at an after-hours club called Save the Robots. This place only really got going at 4am. I remember laughing with my friends there, everyone on the dance floor for hours. I came up from this literally underground club into the sunlight at around 8am, finding people jogging and going to work, everyone looking clean, healthy, and full of purpose.

The night’s happy effects wilted immediately in the bright morning sun. I wandered lonely along this avenue, through these people, imagining their fulfilling lives. There I was, walking home, feeling so forlorn, on this very stretch of sidewalk where I now walk with my family. Where Emma slips her hand into mine, and our kids rush ahead of us, laughing, pointing out something I can’t yet see. It’s like there’s a ghost walking next to us.

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2006: DeKalb Avenue
Newly married and living Upstate, we return to Brooklyn for the first time. We catch up with friends at various brunch and dinner spots, walking miles over the course of two days. On Sunday afternoon, ready to drive the 90 miles back home, I search my pockets and backpack, unable to find our car key. Everything in me sinks.

“Let’s retrace our steps,” Emma says.

“But we’ve been everywhere.”

Where had we even started? Two days earlier, we’d parked our car, then taken a walk through Fort Greene Park. This park where we’d spent years of weekday mornings, drinking coffee while our dogs chased each other around our circle of friends.

Just outside this park one spring morning, under a magnolia tree, I first told Emma I loved her. “There’s something I need to tell you,” I said, stopping, holding her hands. A brief look of alarm flashed across her face. “No, no, it’s nothing bad,” I said, and rushed to get the words out.

Now, on this hopeless search for the lost key, I enter the park near this tree, reflecting glumly on our prospects for getting home.

“Look!” Emma says.

On the first section of lawn, not fifteen feet inside the park, is our car key, nestled in the grass, glinting at us in the late afternoon sun.

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2004: Avenue A
I was running late, trying to find my way out of the subway station and up to the avenue, when I hit some sort of bottleneck. The usual free-flowing river of humans was at a near standstill on the steps leading out into the fresh evening air. We all lumbered slowly like impatient cattle, when I finally spotted the cause of the delay.

Near the middle of the exit staircase, there was a man blocking everyone, reading a book. He climbed at a glacial pace, one stair every three or four seconds, now licking his fingers and turning a page. I wanted to call something out, but luckily NYC is a self-regulating organism.

“HEY!” someone near me yelled through cupped hands. “BOOKIE! Get it moving!”

Bookie startled, nearly dropping his paperback. He tucked his book under his arm and tapped up the steps like Cab Calloway—honestly, who knew Bookie could move like that? I watched his pant legs and shoes ascend in a blur, out of sight. We flowed up the subway stairs like an unclogged drain, all of us back to our rushed pace.

Did I tell you? I was in a hurry, on my way to you.

You are sitting at the bar, three blocks away, reading P.J. Wodehouse, your back to the door. I enter and notice this book in your hands, and it’s the first thing I know about you. I walk up and pull out the stool next to you, and you look up and smile. This is the second thing, how I feel right then. Hello, we say, both of us a little nervous, but recognizing something.

I sit down next to you, and we begin.

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