Tim To Fifty-Ninth Andrew Sarewitz
Somewhere between 8:15 and 8:45 on Sunday nights, Tim and I walk to the West 4th Street subway station. Upper level platform. We ride the C train uptown to 59th Street, Columbus Circle. I exit, he continues to his home and family in Harlem. For that sliver of time, even in a packed rail car, we are alone, coupled in discussion. Argumentative or in agreement, sober or drunk (that would be me), the colloquy began and became ritual back when Tim and his wife lived east of West Village. We’d head to Astor Place where I’d catch the Number 6 subway to Lenox Hill. Tim said I was the first person he allowed to walk him towards home after he finished work. That reads obnoxious. With his coming off two weekend shifts slinging drinks at a crowded bar, dealing with a franchise of personalities in constant demand for his attention, I heard it differently. I heard it how I wanted. I know the choreography. For decades I worked in high-end sales. The “lifers” (a self-diagnosis), understand that you are as important as the product and place you represent, particularly if you depend on repeat business. Many of my 78 A
