Moon River

Walking home on an uncharacteristically warm January evening - warm for January, that is. Which meant I took the indoor pedway system as far as the Sutton Place Hotel, where the bar's grand piano was sulking in a corner. I have become sensitive to the plight of the captive grand pianos. I have been told there is an ornate old European grand doing time in the west end Derk's Formal Wear store. It sits, mute, watching men try on their rental tuxes. Does the piano know these men are likely headed to events where younger, trendier pianos will tinkle in the background?

So I come out of the hotel into the cloud of smokers on the sidewalk and I turn toward home. Behind me a man bellows "Del!" A heart beat goes by and then "DEL! Where are you?" From somewhere down the block a distant "Here!"

"DEL!"

"What?"

"Where are you?"

I cross the street. The big windows of the Italian restaurant show that there is only one table occupied. The outdoor speakers, set up for the enjoyment of the ghosts of patio patrons past, are trickling out Moon River quietly enough to forestall complaints from the seniors in the assisted living residence across the street.

"Over here. Here."

"Del!"

Del is in front of the residence. She's tall and thin and I swear I didn't see her because of the light post. She has high cheekbones, and when she calls back to her drunken suitor she places her high-heeled boots wide, angles forward from the waist, and bellows.

"What?"

"C'm 'ere!"

"No."

"DELLLL!"

His voice bounces off the office buildings, off the big windows of the Italian restaurant, and Moon River is the soundtrack to this doomed romantic evening. Above the street the lighted windows of the insomniac retirees suggest there are witnesses remembering their own Breakfasts at Tiffany's, their own Streetcars Named Desire, and wanting the noise to stop.