Chapter Text
Art is setting up his cart on a Thursday morning in late July, and even though it’s only 9.30am in the morning, drops of sweat are already making their way down his back, staining his t-shirt dark and moist where it touches his spine.
The weather report predicted a sweltering hot day. This foresight urged him to bring two parasols with him today. He can usually take advantage of shadow thrown by some of the higher buildings in the vicinity, but at one point in time, usually between 2pm and 3pm, the sun will burn unimpeded by brick or cloud on days like these. He’s come home with sunburn on his face and arms before, and with his light skin, blue eyes and blond, unruly curly hair, he’s sure he’s more susceptible to it than other people, so he likes to come prepared.
He takes in his surroundings, trying to gauge if he’ll have a good day. The buildings behind him and in front of him are mainly office buildings. On the other side of the road is, for example, a Chase bank, and some of the employees regularly pass by his cart to buy their lunch. It would be too inaccurate to call them friends, but he does consider some of the regulars acquaintances, who will sometimes tell him little anecdotes and then rush off to the park for the remainder of their lunch hour to eat the food he prepared. Susan, for instance, a petite lady who will inevitably have her hair in a bun and wears a crisp dark grey pencil skirt by default, doesn’t have to say a word as she crosses the street every two days. When he sees her coming, he already starts preparing her falafels with a side order of garlic hummus and mint yoghurt dip. Like he’s complicit in a crime she’s not likely to commit, she’ll wink at him and whisper “I don’t work the till in the afternoon, so my garlic breath won’t bother anyone.” For that alone, he always adds a bit more garlic oil in her hummus.
On the right of him is the 57th street subway station, the exit on the other side of the street, and some passers-by will stop at his cart and take their time deciding on what they want to eat, before they rush off across the street and down the stairs, hurriedly munching on the food they’ve just bought, as if they’re going to miss their train. There is one nearly every five minutes apart, judging from the people coming out the exit. Numbers are kind of interesting to Art. He thinks he could have considered a career as a math teacher had he actually gone to college instead of staying behind in New York after high school to work, because he really does love the city. Perhaps one day he’ll go back to get his diploma, but for now, the work he does is enjoyable. He works alone, yet talks to people, all kinds of people, all day.
He squints at the building on the other side of the intersection. Above the entrance with its five arches are three flags. An American flag waves proudly in the middle with two other flags on each side sporting the name Carnegie Hall. Art is most interested in seeing if there is an event planned in the concert hall for this evening, because that would mean that if he’s lucky, the evening crowd might buy from his cart before enjoying the concert. He can’t really read any signs from across the street though, so he makes a mental note to cross the street later to take a peek. Classical music events bring in a more…prosperous audience, so to speak. They don’t always want to be seen buying food from a street cart, but some do take advantage of the convenience of available food in such close proximity to the music hall. He would also like to think that the food he makes isn’t the worst, and that people actually tell others to try some of his menu.
On the other side of the road from Carnegie Hall, behind the Chase Bank, is the Park Hyatt hotel, and even the richer tourists can sometimes be found having a quick snack between splurging on other items they buy in the shops nearby. That, and he’s only two blocks away from the south entrance of Central Park, so families or tourists having spent a relaxing day in the park might stop by on their way back into the city. On a sunny day like this, he sometimes rakes in double the amount than on rainy and dreary days. This is why Art always checks the weather report to calculate how many ingredients he needs to buy.
Based on all of these parameters that he reviews in his head, he thinks today is going to be a good day. Since his cart is small and not one of those immovable large kiosks, he’s had to keep his menu short. Falafels, mainly, and then a few flavors of hummus (spicy, garlicky, plain and with curry) and some different sauces like mint yoghurt sauce, lemon sauce, tomato sauce, and tahin sesame sauce. He can throw a quick falafel wrap together with flatbread or serve the falafels with some greens and salads. His cart only has enough room to warm some food and to keep other food cool. He’s been thinking about also selling some drinks like water and soda, but with the current size of his cart, that’s not possible.
The main part of his work day is done in the early morning hours, when he takes the ingredients he usually buys the night before in the larger grocery store a few blocks from his room out of the fridge and prepares the falafels and the sauces beforehand. It is only after mixing the sauces and slicing up some vegetables, that he stores everything in his cart and drives it up to where he is standing now on the street. He lives in a shared place with two other guys in Hunter’s Point, Queens, but he doesn’t see too much of his housemates, if he’s being honest. Art wonders where they eat or if they even do in the first place, because the only time he’s seen one of his housemates in the kitchen was a few months ago, and since the guy had grown a beard, Art had momentarily been on the verge of calling the police, being sure that he had just caught an intruder in action. It was only after Jason – he thinks that’s the guy’s name – had ensured him that he did, in fact, pay one third of the rent and waved the house key in his face, that Art had lowered the telephone receiver and had stammered an uncomfortable apology. Art racks his brain, but he’s not sure he can even recall the name of his second housemate. Maybe George? No, Roy? Lloyd?
It doesn’t matter much, anyway, as long as the three of them come up with the rent each month. He leaves his part in an envelope under the phone book in the hallway and one of the others takes care of paying the landlord. The best thing about the house is that it lies on the corner of two roads converging and there is a gate behind the house with a small terrace, where he can stall his scooter-driven cart at night. It takes about half an hour, depending on traffic, getting from his home to Carnegie Hall. He’ll usually take the route across the Queensboro Bridge, but he takes the ferry across the East River too sometimes.
By 10am Art is nearly finished setting up his cart. It’s still too early for the lunch hour crowd to stop by, but in about half an hour, the first customers will show up, most of them looking for something quick to eat before they head to the park, and some others getting a bit hungry after skipping breakfast and not having snacks at the office. Art makes sure the food he has prepared that morning is all ready, and checks the aluminum foil and the small paper plates, making sure he has enough ready to start serving and wrapping.
He is just setting up his little foldable stool under one of the parasols and takes a sip of water, when from the corner of his eyes he spots someone on the other side of the road, in front of the subway station entrance, laying down his guitar case. Art squints; he doesn’t get many buskers in the neighbourhood and when he does, he’s learned to be wary about them. Most of the time, when the music or the voice isn’t the greatest, people will actually walk a bit faster away to where they need to go, and there is less chance that they will stop to listen to the music and get some food in the meantime.
From what Art can see from across the street, the guy is wearing a black, short-sleeved polo shirt with the two top buttons unbuttoned. He has short, dark hair and is also wearing dark pants. Oof, Art thinks, that’s going to get pretty hot real soon in this kind of weather. Sure enough, as if they’re telepathically connected, the guy takes his guitar case and moves backwards, closer to the wall of the building behind him, where the shadows of the buildings nearby provide a bit of shade from the burning sting of the sun. He lays the guitar case in front of him, and takes out a cardboard sheet from under the guitar inside, that he sets up in the open lid of the case. Art reckons it probably contains his name or some other contact information, but he’s too far away to be able to read it. Perhaps later he’ll take a small detour to that side of the road before he goes to check the listings for Carnegie Hall, and subtly pass by the guy to check out if he’s any good.
Art likes music, and when he was still living at home with his parents, he used to sing all the time up in his bedroom. His mother used to tell him that he had a really nice voice, and some of the ladies in the synagogue used to say the same thing, but he has never consciously contemplated doing something professionally with his singing talent. He has never learned to play an instrument and it’s not as if he knows how to write lyrics. Besides, if he wasn’t singing, he was helping his mother in the kitchen preparing food. Art loves cooking. The way to combine produce and condiments, and make them into something delicious, has always felt like a work of art to him. Cooks are just as much artists to him than musicians or painters. It’s a different kind of art, but it’s a craft all the same.
The falafels he makes are from an oriental recipe handed down to him from his grandparents, who moved to the USA from Romania. His father used to tell stories that his mother had learned it from an Egyptian immigrant that lived close to them, but that’s all he knows. In any case, in early sixties New York it’s been gradually gaining popularity, and people, especially business people who haven’t had time to prepare lunch at their homes in the early morning rush, are curious enough about what can be done with chickpeas to stop a while and have a bite or two.
In fact, as the musician from across the street starts playing the first notes, plucking his guitar’s strings, there’s a guy coming from the subway station, who glances at the guitar player shortly before crossing the street and walking in the direction of Art’s cart. The man scans the menu and orders. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get that completely,” Art says, as he’s also trying to listen to the music with one ear. The sounds of the city and the traffic on 7th Avenue tune out most of the guitar. Sometimes a few notes will float over, and Art doesn’t think it sounds too bad. It’s kind of captivating, actually, because the musician seems a bit small in stature, but his hand flies over the frets of the instrument as he’s strumming and fingerpicking different chords.
“Not bad eh?” the man tells him after repeating the order and looking across the street. “Oh, and add some tomato sauce, will you?” he continues.
“Yup, sure thing,” Art says, but he’s not entirely sure if he’s acknowledging the order or his customer’s statement about the music and the busker on the other side of the road. Art has to admit he’s getting curious now.