A New Yorker's Stories by Philip Gould Page A

hugs and words of support. But I digress from the day I wish I could undo.
    I grabbed the number 15 bus on Park Row to go the short distance to Confucius Square in Chinatown. My barber was only a block away on that little crooked street that connects the Bowery with Pell Street. The barber is a young man who knows me now since this was my second visit. He speaks very little English and only Cantonese Chinese so communication was not easy. But he had a lot of aplomb and went to work as if he knew exactly what I wanted. He didn’t but I couldn’t protest too much so I ended up with too much of a haircut. Well, I thought, the summer weather is still with us and my hair will grow in before the cold season begins.
    You are always tempted to buy something when in Chinatown, especially fruit. I did get a pound of green grapes of a tropical sort with a filling something like li-gee before boarding the 103 bus going uptown on Third Avenue. The stop on 27th Street was not too far from my next stop, which was The Middle Eastern Carpet Company.
    The Middle Eastern carpet company had a textile for me from a friend in Istanbul. The textile in question was a small square, hand-embroidered, from Central Asia. It is a splendid example of the handiwork of another day which may never be seen again. Globalization and industrialization have all but eliminated folk crafts. Manufactured goods are cheap and accessible; no one is going to spend six months sewing a pillow cover. I loved the new acquisition and I enjoyed making new acquaintances. We had a long talk about this and that, and I parted with the textile carefully wrapped around a cylindrical tube. The nearest subway station was only a block away. I, of course, lost track of the time. It was already five-thirty and I had a dinner engagement at six o’clock. I quickly entered the station and jumped into the first train that arrived. The train was crowded, it was the rush hour, and I got squeezed into the standing area just beyond the door without realizing that the bag which held the precious textile was caught in the middle of the standing mass. I pulled the bag out but it was too late. When I got home and opened the bag I found that half the tiny circular mirrors sewn into the fabric had been broken. I was devastated and could only blame myself. Here was a centuries-old textile that survived the elements for so long only to be damaged in a New York City subway. The day ended on a sad note.

MEMORIAL DAY
    Memorial Day was the first really summer day this year with temperatures rising to eighty degrees or more. My aerobics class was held in spite of the holiday. But since the class begins at a quarter past one I don’t eat lunch, as I can’t exercise on a full stomach. Getting food afterwards is another issue. I tried finding a decent restaurant in the area around my gym. Nothing quite satisfied me so I finally took the bus back uptown to my neighborhood and to the Columbia Cottage, a Chinese restaurant where the lunch menu was just right. I had prawns in lobster sauce with rice, of course and wanton soup. When I got home for a nap it was almost four in the afternoon. I decided I needed some rest if I intended to go out that evening. A free concert by the New York Philharmonic Orchestra was announced to take place at the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine at eight p.m.
    The announcement said the doors would open at seven p.m., so I took my time, arriving at the Cathedral at seven-thirty p.m. By that time there was a long line of people waiting in front of the Cathedral. I went straight up to the guards at the head of the line to find out what was what. I was told that all the tickets had already been given out. Thinking that I didn’t have a chance to attend this concert I turned to return home. But then I said to myself I should not give up so easily. I walked down Amsterdam Avenue to the driveway, up the driveway to the level of the crossing of the church where I