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In London, Roald Dahl called it the witching hour. The dark pitch of night around 3 a.m., when evening animals fall asleep and morning ones haven’t begun to rise. It was when the Big Friendly Giant went roaming the streets and ultimately met Sophie, a small English girl with grit and curiosity. It was the type of meeting that could only happen during that special time.

New York has its own witching hour, and it’s between 11:30 and midnight, when I’m riding the subway home from Manhattan. I’m tired, but I don’t close my eyes. There’s too much to see; the train is packed. After all, Astoria is both a neighborhood destination and a going-out location. Some people will soon be flirting with a bartender while others are lancing towards bed.

There must be a reason why some of my most memorable New York moments happen at this hour. I’m usually exhausted, after being social for some time before. It’s a relief to not have to speak to anyone and allow myself to look around the subway car and introspect until I’m satisfied. There’s the sleepiness of having a full meal of a day. I often listen to this song Raised by Swans’ “Violet Light”. (Editor’s note: the song will open in this window. I’ve written this post with the idea that you’ll play the song while reading, so you may have to disable pop-ups and pull up two pages to get the full effect. It’s worth it. Promise.)

A year ago, the train car was full. I was standing, looking out the dark window and trying to scope the people sitting below me without being seen. I was too tired to truly disguise my curiosity at the two women there. Each was wearing heavy makeup and glittery lipstick. One had a black satin shirt and the other silver sparkles. I knew immediately something was different about them. After a few stops, I decided they were likely transvestites, or at least cross-dressers. (Not like the bearded man in a dress I saw at Penn Station last week. This pair was aiming for similarity, if not authenticity.) As I continued to consider their imagined lives, the one in silver looked up at me and smiled. It was a dinner-party smile. The kind you give when you’ve met someone you immediately like and something funny happens. You create an unearned intimacy, but it makes you both feel good. That’s what she gave me.

The ride continued. Every so often, I would look down and she would roll her face up to mine and smile that smile. I returned it, but tentatively. It was late, and I didn’t want to encourage unwanted attention or send the wrong signal. (Sometimes New York is like being in a foreign country, where I can’t automatically figure out the cultural implications of my acts.) As our interaction continued, I became more curious. Her smile never changed. There was nothing sexual, no come-hither. It never got any more or less intimate or involved. I felt safe and content in her friendliness, which surprised me. When I got off the train I stood outside the window as it revved and then rumbled past. The other passengers streamed around me like water, but I waited silently until she looked my way.

I waved, and then I walked home.

Jacoby met me at a beer hall somewhere in alphabet city. It was a spring night, March 2009, cold enough still for jackets. He had a gap between his front teeth, a feature I find both repulsive and alluring. He was tall. I was with David and his wife Isabelle, on our way to see David’s band. He came to my table and sat with my friends.

David is the only person I know who’s actually making it as a musician in New York City. Sometimes I get angry at him for contributing to the overall noise in this place but his really is different from everyone else’s. Whatever notes he plays, they feel round and good to me. Like cherry tomatoes. Both David and Isabelle liked Jacoby. He paid equal attention to them as to me, which I appreciated. I liked that I felt a little jealous of it too.

We walked to the gig and he carried an amp. Then we didn’t talk much because I felt ridiculous explaining my theories on religion and classism and my family history in the 30 seconds between songs.

“I like the way David holds his guitar,” Jacoby said. “He’s protective. You can tell he respects it.”
I looked up at him and smiled.

Afterward, we went for eggcreams at Belgium Fries in Tompkins Square Park. I read about eggcreams when I was 12, I think in a Judy Blume novel, and they’ve haunted me ever since. When I learned they were originally created in New York, my obsession with foamy, fizzy chocolatey milk became intimately mixed with my sense of self in this city. Jacoby offered to pay. As we walked out of the shop, he told me about his ex-girlfriend, who he’d dated for six years. He described her as a bitch. I could tell he was hearing the impression he made, so I gave him a pass on it. I reminded myself that I know a few people I’d describe that way.

David and Isabelle made excuses about taking his gear to their car, leaving us standing on a street corner. He slurped while I chattered out a few more jokes. Then we kissed.

“You taste like chapstick,” I said.
“Not eggcream?”

I laughed because it was a strange thing to say, and we kept kissing. On the ride home, from the back of David’s bumpy car, I texted Jacoby that I’d had a great time. He asked if I wanted to get together the following day.

The next morning, in my gray pajama pants and light blue t-shirt, I asked what time he wanted to meet. He said he’d come down with something and felt awful. I wished him well and spent the day eating cranberries and Greek yogurt in bed, winding my way through a Jane Austen novel while the sky outside never got brighter than a dark gray.

I never heard from Jacoby again.

New York at Night (Part One)

Jacoby and the Eggcream