Alphabet City - When there is no more time.

“We lock ourselves in echo chambers where we only hear ourselves.” – Robert Pirsig

In those early days, the only thing keeping me alive was my morning cup of coffee and day-old pastries from Café Lyria, a cozy spot on Crosby Street. That, and a cupboard full of ramen noodles and instant meals, just add hot water. My morning coffee had to be fresh, but I didn’t mind the day-old pastries, they tasted fine, plus they were cheap. It was late November, and I had just turned an amicable seventy-seven years old.

The world had shifted dramatically since the presidential election of two years ago. Some felt it was better, some worse. As for me, I didn’t pay much attention. I focused on living well each day in a childlike belief that my contentment and happiness might add to the world’s joy. I felt fortunate to have survived the disappointments and sadness that had visited so many of those I had left behind. On my customary morning stroll, I often recited a litany of these friends and family members, and, at the completion of my walk, I always stopped by Café Lyria. The cafe had become an anchor in Alphabet City, a place where the scent of fresh coffee mingled with the chatter of strangers. It offered a brief reprieve from the loneliness that hung in the air, a loneliness amplified by the city’s frenetic pace and a still lingering divide from the election.

Originally, I had planned to take up residence on the Upper East Side, but finances and a search for a creative community brought me to Alphabet City. It’s a vibrant and eclectic neighborhood nestled in the East Village with a bohemian and artistic history including such luminaries as Patti Smith and Allen Ginsberg. Moving here, I was hoping to tap into the creative energy of the place.

I had made my home in a spartan studio third floor walkup located close to Tompkins Square and the L train. The pipes were exposed in the apartment and the stairwell wallpaper was peeling, but it was all in the service of Art. I was a writer, at least I was playing the part of being a writer. Since moving here, I had twice won an honorable mention in writing contests, but had yet to be published. Still, when asked, I claimed I was a writer. It was a way of reminding myself of who I wished to be, in the same way I had hypnotized myself that I had been a gentleman farmer for years.

After my ritual walk and stop at Café Lyria, I would return home and sit hunched over an old Acer laptop, chain-popping gummy bears made from God knows what. I had taken up residence in this avant-garde enclave after abandoning my farm and leaving the pain of a lost love behind, because I wanted to begin again. What that should look like or where it might lead I hadn’t a clue. I was searching for fragments, anything that might help in resuscitating body and soul. My inner spring had lost its tension, and I had been thinking too long about old age, the boredom of repetition, and the pressing duties of the farm --- its beehives, chickens, orchards, and the never-ending repairs. It was lifelessness with occasional specks of light, more of a burden than a joy. On that fateful morning in New Jersey, I asked myself; “How alive am I willing to be?” It was then I realized I had to leave. Packing was grueling but staying was impossible.

Although I harbored a desire to see my words in print, I often told myself that getting published didn’t matter. Despite my austere surroundings and a considerable number of payments to “Submittable” with corresponding rejection slips, my ego was still intact. There were umpteen mini legal pad sheets spread on top the table filled with phrases, quotes, and ideas captured for my stories. I consoled myself that my writing was therapeutic. And this was true. It provided purpose and helped alleviate the loneliness that waited just outside the front door on the streets of New York.

Though I often boasted of my self-reliance and how wonderful life in Manhattan was, there were days when the loneliness and a sense of failure would mow me down like a New York cab. After all my sacrifices, I felt I hadn’t really progressed. I was still living alone, finances were even tighter, and I could read my years in the mirror. There were days so painful I would romanticize a Smith and Wesson 686 with a hardwood grip as a means of escape. They were fleeting thoughts, for no matter how sad, I clung obstinately to a belief that I would rise from the ashes. But here I was, in my late seventies, still banging on a laptop, for what? To feed my soul? Jesus Christ.

When I finished my morning assault on literature, I took an afternoon nap to let the dust settle. When I got up, I walked a few blocks to The Grey Dog on Mulberry Street. Looking back at it now, I don’t know why the joint had such a hold on me. The food was passable, but the place was hardly a Mecca for the Arts. I guess it was the fact that the prices were reasonable, and I knew that Courtney would be working there. I had fantasized a love affair with Courtney since first seeing her, but it had become another delusion I was trying to abandon. Thankfully, Courtney spared me any embarrassment by treating me as a regular customer.

Besides Courtney and the usual cast of characters, the late afternoon crowd included a few decayed corporate types. I always felt better comparing myself to this sorry lot, wearing their L. L. Bean wrinkle-free shirts, jeans, and Johnston & Murphy sneaks, their eyes ever wary and suspicious. What did they know about living? What did they know about Literature, or Art, or Beauty? I would look down on them with all the arrogance befitting an unpublished writer, prancing about on the moral high ground like a mad emu.

Among the patrons, Chris stood out—not just for his appearance, though that was striking enough. Gaunt and hollow-cheeked, he wore the same threadbare sport coat over a white tee, as if the world owed him a uniform but only delivered scraps. He was unshaven and an old scar cut his right eyebrow in half, climbing up his forehead and under his thinning hair. Yet, despite his disheveled look, he possessed a dignity that set him apart from the dead-eyed other regulars. There was something disarming about him—a quiet intensity, a sense that he carried secrets too heavy for the rest of us to bear. His presence was not appreciated, that was clear. But did he care? That was less clear. Mostly he just sat at the counter, slowly sipping his coffee and casually eating his lunch, which was the same day-after-day, liverwurst on rye with onion. You couldn’t tell if he was listening to the chatter of the place or if he was lost in his own world. Sometimes he’d quietly laugh to himself and other times a bomb could have exploded, and he wouldn’t have looked up.

One afternoon, after I’d been coming there for months, the place was so crowded that I was forced to take the only available seat at the counter, next to Chris. He nodded to me when I sat down.

“How’s it going, Phil?” he asked, startling me by knowing my name.

Before I could respond, he added, “I hear you’re a writer.” He gestured for Courtney to refill his coffee. As I watched her pour, she glanced my way with a small smile. It hit me then: she must have told him. And here I’d thought she didn’t care about me!

“How’s the book coming along?” he asked, sipping his freshly topped-off coffee.

“Not great,” I admitted.

“That’s because you’re probably just writing about yourself.”

The comment hit me like a curveball. Where did that come from? Did the crazy train just pull in?

“Isn’t all great writing autobiographical?” I countered.

“Maybe,” he said, leaning back on his stool. “But not all autobiographies are great writing. You couldn’t even make a decent obituary out of your life, let alone a novel. Do you even realize there are lives out there besides your own?”

His words stung. Who the hell does this guy think he is?

“Why don’t you write my story?” he suggested, as though the idea should have been obvious.

I sighed. “Look, Chris, I’m old. My time is valuable. Why don’t you write your own story?”

He gave me a withering look. “I’m not a writer,” he snapped, “but I want my story told. People need to know my life mattered—that it mattered cosmically. You’ve got nothing to lose by listening.”

“Except my precious time,” I shot back.

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Caught between irritation and curiosity, I studied him. His shoulders slumped slightly, a mix of despondence and defiance in his expression. And yet, his earlier remark lingered: you’re always writing about yourself. Wasn’t that why I had come to New York — to break out of my narrow perspective? And hadn’t I been spinning my wheels creatively ever since?

Maybe it was frustration with my work. Maybe it was pity. Or maybe, just maybe, he had a point.

“Alright, Chris,” I said finally, leaning forward. “Tell me your story. I’m all ears.”

Caught off guard, he blinked and then broke into a slow smile. “You won’t regret it,” he said.

“That remains to be seen,” I thought, but kept it to myself.

We met every afternoon for a week in a back booth at The Grey Dog, staying until way past dinner time. We’d sit facing each other, I’d open my laptop and he’d start talking, calmly, as if he were sleepwalking through the past. He’d free associate, jumping from one episode to another, revisiting failures; a disastrous marriage, fired from jobs, brief visits to psych wards, and the story of the scar on his face. I took furious notes and we would drink countless cups of coffee to the point my hands would shake. He always paid for dinner, refusing my offers to split the bill.

By week’s end, Chris was spent. He looked as if he were passing into a state of catatonia. He let out a long sigh, like someone who’s just failed an exam and wants to leave. He stood up, thanked me, and reached out to shake my hand, I stood up and gave him a hug. He gave a light hug back then quickly broke away, turned on his heels, and headed out the door. I was left to pay for dinner.

The following afternoon, I returned to The Grey Dog, but he wasn’t there. Nor did he appear on any of the evenings that followed. When I asked Courtney if she knew where he’d gone, she just shook her head, muttered something vague, and busied herself with another order. The other patrons were useless, shrugging with practiced indifference or claiming not to know who I was talking about. As I mentioned before, he wasn’t well-liked.

I never saw him again.

I now suspect that, in telling his tale, he realized his nakedness and, like Adam in the Garden of Eden, went off to search for a place to hide.

For over a year now, I’ve been working on his story, and it has not been easy. My scattered, nearly indecipherable notes reflect the chaotic way Chris recounted his life. He spoke in fragments, always circling the gravity of his fears, making it hard to build a cohesive narrative. Chris was an odd beauty of a man caught in a dark space too tight for him to turn around. He struggled to articulate his pain and to explain how it had shaped his life. Yet, he entrusted his story to me—a responsibility I hope to honor with the gravity it deserves. I can only hope he found some solace in the telling.

Chris longed for his life to mean something. I believe that yearning is universal—a quiet ache in everyone. And although telling one’s tale is not as crucial as the attention paid to living it, every story matters. Writing his story has made me reconsider my own. It’s forced me to look at the threads I’ve been weaving here in Alphabet City, at the narrative I’ve been crafting for myself. That’s the transformative power of stories: when we truly listen to another’s experience, we better understand our own.

After two years, it’s now clear that my time in Alphabet City is over. Chris was my final teacher, and his lesson was this: the worst suffering is the kind you cannot share.

I came to New York chasing truth, leaving everything familiar and comforting behind. I believed that if I treated each encounter as a clue and every person as a teacher, I might find the answers I sought. In doing so, I’ve had to face some harsh truths about myself—and harder still, be willing to share them with a fellow traveler.

I cling to stability, to the illusion of control, even when it traps me in a state of “tolerable misery.” Change terrifies me. I fear that letting go will lead me to ruin, so I hold on, managing the unmanageable. But life, by its nature, is chaotic, transient. The only real trap is attachment. I must constantly let go.

New York is a city of reinvention, a place where lives are rebuilt and reshaped amidst the chaos. But the energy I once drew from this place has turned into something corrosive, eroding the sense of purpose I came here to find. The clang of the subway, the sirens and horns, and the ceaseless hum of humanity — it all feels hollow now. Chris’s story is tangled in these city streets, but to tell it properly, I need to step outside its shadow. I need distance, perspective.

It’s time to follow Chris’s lead, to turn on my heels and walk out the door. Where to? Perhaps Paris, that perennial haven for writers with its quiet cafes and timeless rhythm. I’ll let fate decide.

For now, it’s time to pack.