Living Works of Art

Summer in New York is both nice and not nice. The not nice is easy: it's too hot and especially it's too humid. I sweat easily, and if I walk briskly on the sidewalks as is my wont, I become a river of sweat. Either I have to remind myself incessantly to walk slowly and stay in the shade, or I have to keep ducking into stores to enjoy their air conditioning (AC).

What's nice about the AC in commercial establishments is that when you enter you immediately feel a lovely relief from the heat. What's less nice is that after a while you begin to feel frozen. There's an upside, though. You're ready to go outside again and enjoy the refreshing heat just as a relief from your frozen state indoors. The heat of the sidewalks warms you up rapidly and of course a bit too rapidly during the dog days of summer.

The best part of summer though is how women dress, especially young women. Women over forty tend to have dignity and understand only too well what provocative dress actually is. They often are married, typically have kids, and they're not on the make. They look nice, but not seductive. Younger women are different.

I don't know what goes on in the minds of young women but I know what goes on in the minds of mature men who watch them on the street. That's because I am one of those mature men and let me tell you one can amuse oneself for days just walking around New York sidewalks if you have an imagination that travels in the gutter. That seems to be where mine hangs out.

I have to keep reminding myself that these young women are just following the fashion. When they get dressed in the morning, often before their first cup of coffee I would imagine, they are probably not thinking about how they can torment the male half of the population with provocative dress. They simply dress like the other young women. They follow the style.

I find the current style to be provocative. What can I say? Women have lovely skin and I enjoy looking at as much of it as I can see and in summer that means quite a bit of gorgeous skin. Yes, it's quite a bit indeed.

I like to go to museums to look at the art. This does not mean I want to take the art home with me and hang it on the wall of my apartment. I don't. Quite frankly having an original Renoir on my walls would change the look of my apartment in ways that I'm not sure I would like. The same goes for a Jackson Pollack. Maybe a Warhol or a Roy Lichtenstein would work for my taste and go with the mid-century modern way I've furnished it? One can forget about it. It's sufficient to contemplate the huge insurance bill and concomitant worry about theft. No, I just like to look.

The same goes for the works of art of the human species on the sidewalks of New York in their short skirts and sometimes skimpy tops. My favorites, while they are rare, are halter tops without bras, nipples on lovely display through their attempts to poke through the thin fabric restraining them. These shapely young women are works of art on the sidewalk museums and there's not a lot of them but there are definitely some. By the way, there is no entry fee to the sidewalks. According to my iPhone (which I do not trust) I walk over 10,000 steps each day just drinking in the view of these unwitting works of art all around me. It's delightful.

A little while ago I was walking behind a particularly nice exhibit, enjoying the way her buttocks moved so sweetly in her yoga pants, her tiny waist and full hips creating an ideal hourglass effect. She had reddish brown perfectly coiffed hair set off with long dangle gold earrings. I loved the sweep of her graceful neck leading down to diminutive bare shoulders. As I marveled at this gorgeously shaped piece of human sculpture she ran into a friend and the two women turned to face each other and talk.

I was taken aback because when I saw her face I realized the twenty-something sexpot walking in front of me had in reality been a forty-something sexpot. The smile she gave her friend was worth its weight in bright white ivory. It was the type of smile that would light up a room at a party. It was genuine and full of good vibrations. She probably had enjoyed a previous life as a model for toothpaste commercials.

I was paralyzed. I had to switch my analogy from a museum to an art gallery. If I could afford this particular work of art, I definitely wanted to try it out for a while to see how it would look in my home. What I meant by that is that while I loved everything about the way she looked, there were other issues to consider. Would I like her personality? Would she like mine? Did she already have a partner? Was she even interested currently in single men? Would she be grossed out by the age difference? I guessed it might be fifteen years or more.

In my father's day I imagine life was simpler. If the woman was wearing a gold band, you'd forget about her, unless you like that sort of quick and sordid affair. There's no shortage of married woman ready for a quick but discrete roll in the hay. I don't judge but I'm not that kind of man. It's just not my taste. Gold bands still mean the same today of course, but in the current day and age a woman can be just as unavailable without one.

After my initial paralysis right there on the sidewalk which lasted only a second or two, I realized that it was nice to fantasize but there was no simple way to meet this woman of my dreams. She would remain just that: The woman of my dreams.

I strolled on. I was early, so there was no hurry. I was meeting the paramour of my friend at a local vegetarian place for lunch. I'm a committed carnivore, but alas she is not. When meeting a female friend, it's important to be the first to arrive, and it is especially the case for this particular friend. Her insecurities are legendary and they make it a personal hell for her to sit alone in a restaurant at any time, for any reason. I don't understand why that is the case, but it is, so I deal with it.

I arrived first to the restaurant as was my plan and happily it was one of those rare New York restaurants that will seat you even if not all the people in your party are present. I ordered a small glass of seriously overpriced white wine to sip while I waited for my friend Jessica. It was a French Chablis, Premiere Cru.

There was a young woman sitting across from me who was careless about keeping her legs together and I entertained myself by checking out the color of her panties. They were lavender. I kept checking to see if the color would change but of course it did not.

Before Jessica walked into the restaurant, my dream woman and her friend entered asking if there was a table available even if they had no reservation. There was one and it turned out to be next to mine. The two women took it and my good luck continued since my dream woman (let's call her Dreamie) sat next to me.

This was a restaurant where there is little space between the tables. Space is at a premium in Manhattan. This meant I was less than a foot away from Dreamie and I could hear everything she said amazingly easily. It helped that the ambient noise was deafening (also a feature of many New York restaurants) and so the two women were using their 'outdoor voices' to converse.

It's amazing the intimate things two women will freely discuss in a public space, and loudly, too! I learned that Dreamie had split with her 'partner' around six months ago and was looking to meet a new man. The two women bemoaned how hard it was to meet a new man at their age. I felt like waving my hand and saying 'excuse me ladies. Look my way, please,' but of course I did not.

Their conversation turned to topics too intimate to politely eavesdrop upon. For example, they discussed their methods of birth control. There was an animated debate between 'the pill' and an IUD. I was thrilled to hear Dreamie say, "I'm on the pill, but I have no idea why. I should have aged out of it by now. Hope springs eternal, I suppose." Mary Ann, her companion, was an advocate of the IUD. "Your baby will be born clutching it, I'm sure," Dreamie said. I was beginning thoroughly to like this woman!

Jessica arrived and ruined my fantasies of the sexpot next door (ie, the next table), so to speak. It's okay. Jessica is a sweetheart and we had a nice lunch. To make the restaurant seem larger I suspect, the wall behind our table was a mirror. This meant as I faced Jessica I could see a reflection of Dreamie's face. When Dreamie saw Jessica sit down to join me her face fell and this made my spirits soar. Jessica is, after all, age appropriate for me and she presents a lovely appearance. I do not find her sexy, but there is no question that she is attractive and a lovely woman.

I quickly asked Jessica about her partner, my friend Mark, and when Dreamie overheard me I saw her disappointment turn to a smile. She received loud and clear my message that Jessica was not my date but only a friend. I wasted no time steering Jessica to ask me about my absence of a love life. It's a topic she has always loved to pursue in any event. I had thereby established my bonafides to Dreamie as someone who was available.

It really was my lucky day. When Dreamie and her friend finished lunch, finished their coffees, had paid, and went to rise to leave, Dreamie's chair stuck on the uneven floorboards as she pushed it back. She almost fell. I leapt up to help her. She turned and looked me in the eye to thank me. I was the lucky recipient not only of her sweet voice but also of her smile from heaven.

I took a huge chance. In front of her friend and also of course my own friend Jessica I said, "It's a pleasure to help such a lovely woman. If I may say so please, you have the most lovely earrings. They frame your pretty face beautifully."

I braced myself for the withering reaction any New Yorker would expect after putting himself in the line of fire like that. I worried my flattery was overdone. Well, I knew it was overdone; the question was how would she react to it? I was pleasantly surprised.

"Thank you, kind sir," Dreamie said. "You just made my day." She then showed she could have been a magician or something because she kissed my cheek and somehow at the same time surreptitiously slipped her business card into my hand, giving it a little but wonderful and sensuous squeeze, while whispering into my ear, "Call me."

Dreamie and her friend left the restaurant leaving me standing there stunned, wondering how her simple little squeeze of my hand could convey such a powerful message. Jessica was calling my name over and over again. Finally, I heard her voice calling out, "Earth to Harold. Earth to Harold. Come in, please."

I had been watching Dreamie and her friend talking animatedly (I wondered if the subject was me?) out on the sidewalk, and then walking away together. I smiled at Jess and sat back down. She had of course noticed my distraction. I knew what was coming. I braced myself.

"You're still alone? It's time to stop lusting for the NYU coeds and get back in the game, Harold."

I stayed silent.

Undaunted, Jess continued, "You have to stop pining for what cannot be. Carol is gone. She's history. You know that. For Pete's sake she moved to California after the two of you split up! You can't get farther away than that."

"Hawaii? Japan? Australia? Actually, I think she moved to California for Peet's sake," I said.

"I don't understand," Jess said. She really didn't, of course.

"Peet's Coffee. The original shop is in Berkeley. She hangs out there, I hear," I said. I realized my mistake as soon as I said it. Jess did too, and she pounced.

"You hear?? From who? Are you pathetically spying on Carol?" Jess sort of asked. It was more like an accusation.

"I have my sources," I said.

"Her computer. You got into her computer, didn't you?"

No reply. I'm good with computers. I could hack into anything probably if I wanted to.

"Oh, God, Harold. You have to stop! This is unhealthy, and probably illegal. Give the poor woman a break!" Jess said.

"The poor woman?" I asked.

"Okay, okay, give the poor bitch a break. Happy? The point is, this is self-destructive behavior. New York is full of sexy women waiting to meet you," she said.

"I prefer the word tramp to bitch in Carol's case. Most of those sexy women are too young for me. Sexy, cute, but way too young," I said. "I'm 62 you know, and their ages range from 18 to 30. Fun to look at and to fantasize about, but they're much, much too young."

Jess nodded, happy to learn I realized that. Or so I assumed. "What about that pretty woman who recently sat in that chair?" she said, just as a portly older man took the very chair that had supported the fetching ass of that same 'pretty woman' less than ten minutes earlier.

"He's not my type," I said. Jess made a face.

Lunch over, I walked Jess to her favorite Italian style ice cream place. I watched her nibble at the smallest ice cream cone imaginable and then we kissed each other on the cheek and went our separate ways.

I work at home on Tuesdays and I walked home to resume work. When I got home I dug out of my pocket the business card Dreamie had given me. Her name was Susan. She worked at a fancy real estate company called Sotheby's. There was an address, an email, Facebook and Twitter, but no telephone number. Yet she had told me to call her.

I went online and found the local branch of Sotheby's that was on the card. There was a general telephone number and I called it.

"Hello, Sotheby's. How may I help you?" came the purr of a woman's voice over the phone. It could have been the voice of a cat. It was hard to tell.

"Susan Hansen, please," I said.

"May I ask who is calling?"

"Yes, of course. It's Harold."

"That's all, just Harold?"

"Harold Potter. You know, like Harry Potter? No relation, by the way," I said.

The purring kitten had no reaction, not even a giggle. She put me on hold. My mother named me Harold Potter something like three decades before JW Rowling wrote the Harry Potter novels. I had to abandon the moniker Harry. I had a choice between Hank and Harold. I chose Harold. Maybe Hank would have been a better choice. The problem was with the name Hank I always think of Hank Aaron, and while I can play baseball reasonably well, the difference in talent between my childhood hero Hank Aaron and myself is measured in light years.

"This is Susan. How may I help you please?" Susan's tiny high-pitched voice came over the line, loud and clear. In contrast my voice is a deep mellifluous bass voice, perfect for lulling my friends to sleep. It's been shown to be quite effective at that in the past.

"This is Harold. You gave me your card at lunch earlier today and asked me to call you," I said.

There was a long pause. I hate long pauses in such situations.

"Is there a number where I can return your call in, say, around twenty minutes? I'll have those properties prepared for you then," Susan said.

"Can't talk now, eh?"

"Exactly," she said.

I gave her my cell number and we both pressed end, and that was that. I felt like a mountain wilderness fisherman who had cast his hook and line and was now just standing, waiting for a bite. When the bite came the fun would come by reeling in the trout.

When fishing, however, the waiting is fun too, as you stand in the stream in your high boots lost to your own thoughts in a silent, pastoral paradise of the hills or mountains of the countryside. Waiting for a woman to return a call is not nearly as pleasant. Reeling her in however had the possibility of being wonderful. I concentrated on that thought.

I went back to my computer and put on my new noise cancelling Bluetooth enabled headphones. I really love those headphones. Synched to my cell phone I would hear when it rang. I got lost in my work.

My default ringtone is a snippet of the Ennio Morricone theme music of a Fistful of Dollars, the 1964 first of the three so-called Sergio Leone Spaghetti Westerns starring Clint Eastwood, back when he was a great actor. I heard its dulcet tones in about an hour. Observation number one: Susan is not perfect at estimating time. I don't want to sound sexist, but what woman is? I guess that does sound sexist. My daughter would say so, certainly.

I wish my daughter had not taken Carol's side in the blowup that destroyed my soul. I don't know who was right: Carol or me? I hate, absolutely hate, people who say these things, but here it goes: There's enough fault to go around. Now the two women I loved most on earth are both in California and - what's the word? - oh yes, they're both estranged from their evil husband and father. Damn it all. When if ever will I let this go? I guess I never will.

How long can a woman hold a grudge? Judging by my late, sweet mother, a lifetime is a good guess. I figured that held for Carol. She was lost to me. That really hurts. But my daughter Samantha? Surely with time she would learn to forgive her Dad and realize that life is complicated? I needed patience. Job came to mind. I needed to channel the patience of Job.

I answered my cell phone. It was Susan. The sound of her voice and my imagination of her smile changed my mood on a dime from one of sour reflection to one of sweet optimism. Susan could already do that to me. What did that portend? Only good things, I figured.

"Hello?" I said.

"Hi, Harold. This is Susan Hansen, returning your call," she said.

"Susan, if you are free could you let me take you to dinner this evening? I would love to get to know you better," I said. I knew it would be enough just to sit across from her and drink in her pretty face especially if on occasion she would smile that devastatingly wonderful smile she had.

"I'm afraid I'm not free tonight," she said, bursting my bubble.

"Tomorrow night, then?"

"Oh, Harold, I would love to enjoy a meal with you, I really would, but I'm afraid I'm booked until Friday," Susan said. My ardor was evaporating before my eyes. How popular was this little object of desire?

"My mother's coming to visit me for this week, you see. She leaves Friday, and I intend to get plastered as soon as she's gone. Maybe Saturday would be more prudent, now that I think about it?" Susan said. My ardor returned in spades. A woman whose mother drives her nuts was my kind of girl.

"Sure, Susan. Saturday it is. I'll get a reservation. Can I text you at this phone number?"

"Yes," she said. "It's my personal cell phone and is not a work phone. That's important. Please use this number in the future, unless of course you want to buy an apartment," and Susan giggled. What a fetching giggle. Hell, basically I just love it when girls giggle. "I've got to go now. A client just showed up. See you Saturday then. I'm already looking forward to it."

"I am too," I said, and we both pushed end.

I chose the restaurant with care. It was a little on the elegant side but not too much. It was downtown in the Village where there are many restaurants that reek of charm. They are all noisy but the one I chose is less noisy than many others. I got there early and had an open bottle of Chianti Classico when Susan arrived. She was dressed perfectly, in a body-hugging dress covering all the important areas. I hoped to see those later, although you never know, do you?

I had not really noticed her figure before, having concentrated on her face. That initial time on the sidewalk, however, I had checked out her ass in her yoga pants. I had thought she was yet another sexy NYU coed, but as it turned out she just has the body of one of them. The dress she was wearing, poured into is a better description, simply confirmed that analysis of her body. Wow.

Susan liked the restaurant and drank her fair share of the Chianti which pleased me. We talked nonstop during dinner and Susan repeatedly flashed me her smile from heaven. I did not want the meal to end. When the waiter came to enquire about desert I could tell Susan would not have desert. She had also not eaten any bread. This probably helped to explain her body of a girl twenty years her junior.