Track 31 The 59th Street Bridge Song
Track 31
The 59th Street Bridge Song
Matt
By the time Matt pulled his car out of the ferry terminal parking lot, Maggie was already fading.
“You can close your eyes,” Matt suggested.
“ No sleep till Brooklyn! ” she yelled, channeling the Beastie Boys song.
Matt laughed, and they sang a few verses as she sat up straight, intent on taking it all in.
She was asleep by the first traffic light.
When Matt looked at Maggie’s sleeping face, he saw a beautiful combination of two people who were nothing alike. Her mouth and her coloring were like Bea’s. They shared the same olive-toned skin, and her wavy chocolate-brown hair was a looser version of Bea’s curls. But her long legs, sharp nose, and unreal eyes came right from Chase Logan’s DNA.
The car behind him honked its horn impatiently. Matt blushed, realizing the possibly creepy reason for his delay, and drove off.
During the hour-long drive to Manhattan, he organized their day in his mind. The bakery where Renee and Jake’s wedding cake was waiting for pickup was located on the Upper East Side, while the Japanese listening room he wanted to show her was way downtown. It was one of the coolest new concepts in music he’d seen in years. the next karaoke was the headline he’d given his article on the subject. He was psyched for Maggie to experience it firsthand, stoked for her to bring the concept to her space in Ohio.
He hoped that he and Maggie would keep in touch. He hadn’t made a new friend whom he had felt such an immediate connection with in a long time. It seemed as if he had known her for much longer than a few days. And nights. For strangers, they had certainly spent a lot of time together.
Matt broke his no-touching rule again, gently nudging her when the skyline appeared in the distance. She barely took in the sight of the city, though not for lack of trying. It was adorable how she propped herself up, holding on to the door with one hand and the middle console with the other before resting her head back on the window and shutting her eyes again. She would have to look backward on the way home.
He purposefully chose the 59th Street Bridge to enter Manhattan, cueing up his Spotify to the song of the same name—he loved adding his own soundtrack to life. He had recently heard Paul Simon tell Stephen Colbert that he loathed singing the song, specifically the line that said, “Life I love you, all is groovy.” Matt got it—it was quite the corny line—but to him, that was part of its charm. He wondered if Maggie would roll her eyes or sing along, lowering the windows and cranking up the stereo to bring her to. The moment she heard the first notes, she perked up and harmonized with Simon more for the gossip. They were like a bunch of bored teenagers and would surely ask him what the deal was with the pretty woman later.
“I live in an L-shaped studio apartment right up the street.” He pointed north as they climbed the garage ramp, squinting in the bright sunlight at the top. “But I travel so much, I’m hardly there. I could really live anywhere. I have a friend who’s been living in Nepal since Covid. She works remotely.”
“I think it would be pretty amazing to live right here where you do!” she marveled.
“That’s funny, because I think it would be pretty amazing to live over a record store!”
“It is pretty amazing,” she admitted. “Plus, not to be a downer, but you know, the spirits of my dead parents are there, so I’m always happiest at home.”
He thought to hug her, then thought better of it.
They walked under the arch of Washington Square Park. Well, he walked, she skipped. Her eyes widened, as did the perpetual smile that had lit up her face since crossing the bridge. She was beautiful when she smiled. She was beautiful when she didn’t smile too.
She spun around in front of the fountain in the park like Julie Andrews at the start of The Sound of Music , taking it all in.
“I can’t believe you grew up here,” she shouted.
“I didn’t really grow up here. I grew up on the Upper East Side. It couldn’t be more different.”
“I’ve only ever seen New York in the movies.”
“OK, then, I grew up in a Woody Allen movie, and the kids down here grew up in some sort of Martin Scorsese–Ed Burns collaboration.”
Maggie laughed. “I totally get it!”
Washington Square Park rarely disappointed. Any visit more or less guaranteed sightings of an unhinged woman feeding squirrels, a kid from the suburbs buying a dime bag, a plethora of dogs, or a protest about whatever was worth protesting at the moment, all of it set to the music of a street performer singing Dylan. In this case one of his lesser-known tunes, “Simple Twist of Fate.”
Matt could swear the guy looked at him prophetically as he crooned in a gravelly, nasal tone.
“They sat together in the park…she looked at him and he felt a spark. Tingle to his bones.”
Why is it when you are falling for someone that every love song feels like it’s written for you? If he hadn’t gone to that bar, sat on that stool, talked to that girl…all simple twists of fate. He wondered if she was feeling it too, or if she was on a totally different page.
She stopped in her tracks and wrapped her hands around his middle in what he could only describe as a love-filled hug. His cheeks turned ten shades of crimson and, upon realizing that, ten shades more.
“What was that for?” he asked after she released him, the journalist in him looking for a straight answer.
“Everything. I don’t know what I would have done without you this week.”
“It has definitely not been what I expected.” He laughed to cover up his hope; maybe she was on the same page.
“Me neither,” she said, twirling in front of him. “I can’t believe I’m in Washington Square Park! Jason would love this!”
His face dropped, along with his ego.
Not even the same chapter. Maybe it would be best if they didn’t keep in touch after all.
Maggie followed Matt out of the park and through a nondescript door below a neon sign that read tokyo listening room . Inside, Matt was greeted like a celebrity by the manager, an upbeat woman named Justine, grateful for the glowing feature he had recently written about them in Rolling Stone . He introduced Maggie and explained her dream to open a similar space in her record store back home. Justine was generous and encouraging.
She led them down the narrow stairs from the bar to the tiny basement restaurant, where she directed them to the last remaining stools in front of a small open kitchen. The chef greeted them with a smile as he polished white soup bowls as if preparing to serve a queen.
It was a full house, meaning the two tables and dozen bar seats were taken. Justine called for everyone’s attention.
“Welcome to the Tokyo Listening Room. My name is Justine, your host, your friend, your Sakesan. On the turntable today, we welcome DJ Amanda Panda!”
Following a boisterous round of applause, she continued:
“If you care to have a song played, check out our song list, write down your choice on your chopstick sheet, and turn it in. If you don’t, by all means we’re good with that too. Our playlist is fabulous, we love Beyoncé and all that, but we do want to play your faves, so write them down. As for booze down here, our magic water keeps you hydrated and is somewhat good for you. We also have beer and wine and champagne.”
“The magic water is sake,” Matt whispered to Maggie.
“I figured—I’m going to serve magic water too! The sushi place next door already has a license for it.”
Justine went on to explain that the four-course tasting menu was set by the chef, before turning things over to him.
“Hello, Tokyo Listening Room, if I can have your attention for one moment, please,” the chef bellowed over A Tribe Called Quest rapping their hit “Buggin’ Out.” It was quite appropriate because Maggie was most definitely bugging out. Matt could see her brain bouncing in ten different directions. She was wide awake now; that was for sure.
The chef placed a small white bowl in front of Matt and another in front of Maggie, while a waiter left the kitchen with a trayful of the same.
“Thank you for joining us to start off the weekend early,” the chef said. “This is a miso clam chowder topped with watercress and sliced thick bacon.”
They each took a sip. It was otherworldly.
Matt grabbed a tiny pencil from its holder and handed it to Maggie. “Write down one song from the list on your paper chopstick holder.”
Maggie perused the selection of songs, sorted by decades.
“Let’s not say what we picked—and then guess when the song comes on?” he suggested.
“Duh.” She smiled, psyched for the challenge.
She finally scribbled something down before folding the paper as many times as possible, as if Matt had X-ray vision. He laughed and took the pencil, writing down his choice. He toyed with putting down his usual, “Rock and Roll” by Led Zeppelin, but went with a not-so-subtle hint of his feelings for her—there were so many songs to choose from in that category. He doubted she would guess it was his, but maybe it would resonate with her all the same.
Justine brought over the first flight of sake and poured it to Madonna’s first hit, “Holiday.” Matt asked for a half pour. Even though it was hours away, he did have to drive back to the beach later.
“This one is fruity and floral, it’s called Southern Beauty, and it’s from Oshu, Japan.”
“Ahh, like Shotime,” Matt interjected, touting the famed young Japanese baseball player who had signed with the Dodgers. He turned, intending to explain his comment to Maggie, who retorted with, “I bet you hoped he’d be a Yankee.”
He looked at her in awe. There was no way this girl could know about both music and baseball.
She smiled her beautiful smile at him. “This is amazing,” she said.
You are amazing , he thought.
Salt-N-Pepa started singing “Whatta Man.”
“You shouldn’t have,” Matt joked.
“As if,” Maggie laughed.
The chef served the next course, hamachi sashimi over arugula salad sprinkled with jalapeno, toasted shallots, and crushed black and white sesame seeds. It was paired with a mash-up from DJ Godfather and a delicious dry sake made locally in Sunset Park, Brooklyn.
“I wish I could show you around Brooklyn,” Matt commented.
“Next time,” Maggie said, clearly meaning it. Her words made his heart swell until it hurt, like an ache.
That’s it. He would not fall for this unavailable woman. He toyed with asking for his song choice back. Maybe she would pick a bad song and he’d be turned off. He once broke up with a girl because she picked Toto’s “Africa” for karaoke.
As if on cue, Maggie’s song came on.
He knew it in an instant by its perfection and obscurity. If she had picked “New York State of Mind,” or something equally on the nose, he would have been disappointed. “New York City” from John and Yoko’s 1972 studio album with the Plastic Ono Band blasted from the speakers, and Maggie casually bopped along to the beat, trying to play it cool. As the bridge faded and the last stanza played, she broke.
“This is my song!”
“What! No way, this is my song,” he lied.
“Stop! You have got to be kidding me!”
“I am, I am kidding, I knew it was your song from the first note. Great choice.”
The third course came, nori lentils with Swiss chard and shiitake mushrooms followed by dessert—a sweet potato cheesecake topped with caramel, fresh raspberries, and one spectacular sweet potato chip. It was nothing short of sublime, as was the song pairing, Matt’s choice, The Proclaimers singing “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” in honor of the distance that would soon be between them.
Yes, he had calculated it.
“Is this you?” Maggie managed in between decadent bites.
“It’s my go-to,” he fibbed again, taking a slow bite of the heavenly cheesecake.
“I love it,” she said, taking her own slow bite.
“The dessert or the song?”
“Both!”