I moved to New York about nine months ago knowing no one and knowing not what to expect from my new neighbors. As it so happens, my second or third night in town, longing to watch the Mavs play, I ducked into the pub closest to my sublet — and lucked into meeting the warmest, most generous souls in all of Manhattan.
For a couple of months, we saw a lot of each other. Our crew: an actor, a computer whiz, three bartenders, a cook, a student, a sound engineer, a cop, an agent, a carpenter, a lawyer, an editor. It was a little like Cheers, minus the canned laughter and obnoxious accents.
Then some people moved away, and I took my current job and moved to a different neighborhood. It was probably a natural end to a short but very sweet era.
Work schedules and trips home and adulthood in general keep us from seeing each other often, though we’ve reunited en masse a couple of times. I get the comforting sense that no matter how much time passes between meetings, the way we interact won’t change much.
Anyway, the reason I’m mentioning this now: Last night I had the pleasure of watching the game with two of the people mentioned above — two of my favorite people period, in fact. Each time we meet, I’m reminded of why I loved New York in the first place.