There were six of us and it was late. We had fallen in together in search of a restaurant or bar, following an event at Poets House to celebrate 30 years of the annual poetry anthology that my husband edits. The atmosphere among us was one of good-natured bonhomie. Our four companions were a former US Poet Laureate; a poet and MacArthur Fellow; the poetry editor of a celebrated magazine and the director of a prestigious New York City research library; and a history professor. Each of the three poets had worked closely with my husband at one time or another.
Natasha Trethewey, Kevin Young, Terrance Hayes, and Brett Gadsden.
Our first stop was the Odeon on West Broadway, where we ordered a round, just moments before the bartender gave the last call. After paying our bill, we headed out into the nearly deserted SoHo streets and wandered for a few blocks, talking and laughing, grouping in twos and threes and rearranging ourselves every block or so. We cast long shadows as we passed under street lights. I could imagine being in one of the nearby apartments and hearing the echo of our happy voices approach and fade away. Finally, we happened upon what could be described as a dive bar with a welcoming neon sign. We took seats in the back and ordered another round.
My husband and I were at least 15 years older than the oldest of our drinking companions and as such were unable to match their energy and stamina. My husband could still see two years of grueling cancer treatment in his rear-view mirror and the lingering side-effects included fatigue and a lower-than-usual tolerance for booze. It was time for us to go home. Our companions, who had known each other for decades and hadn’t been together in quite some time wanted to keep going. By now we had closed the dive so we once again headed into the dimly lit streets where we walked together until David hailed a cab.
As our cab pulled away I caught a final glimpse of our four friends, walking slowly together as they hoped to extend the evening. At that moment I had the unmediated thought that despite their impressive resumes, their brilliance and many accomplishments, they could be in danger. Four young African Americans walking confidently in one of New York City’s more affluent neighborhoods. It struck me that as long as David and I were with them—two white senior citizens--they were safe.
But I reminded myself that this was New York City in 2018, and surely there was no longer the need for such a worry.
-- sdl
A very memorable evening. Great conversations. And the added pleasure of being greeted by name ("hey, David") by the bartender at The Odeon.
Posted by: The Best American Poetry | June 09, 2020 at 01:05 PM