smile.
âWhen my brother saw it, he gave me hell. He didnât like that it was gold or that it was monogrammed. But what really ticked him off was my job. Weâd get together for a beer in the Village and heâd rail against bankers and Wall Street and jab me with my plans of traveling the world. I kept telling him I was going to get around to that too. So finally, one night he took the lighter out into the street and had a vendor add the postscript.
âAs a reminder to seize the day whenever you lit a girlâs cigarette?
âSomething like that.
âWell, your job doesnât sound so bad to me.
âNo, he admitted. Itâs not bad. Itâs just . . .
Tinker looked out on Broadway, gathering his thoughts.
âI remember Mark Twain writing about an old man who piloted a bargeâthe kind that ferried people from a landing on one side of the river to a landing on the other.
âIn Life on the Mississippi ?
âI donât know. Maybe. Anywayâover thirty years, Twain figured this man had shuttled back and forth so often that heâd traveled the length of the river twenty times over, without leaving his county.
Tinker smiled and shook his head.
âThatâs what I feel like sometimes. Like half my clients are on their way to Alaska while the other half are on their way to the Evergladesâand Iâm the one going from riverbank to riverbank.
âRefill? the waitress asked, coffeepot in hand.
Tinker looked to me.
The girls at Quiggin & Hale had forty-five minutes for lunch and I was in the habit of being in front of my typewriter with a few minutes to spare. If I left right then, I could probably make it. I could thank Tinker for the lunch, jog up Nassau, and catch the elevator to the sixteenth floor. But what would the latitude be for a girl who was usually prompt? Five minutes? Ten? Fifteen if she broke a heel?
âSure, I said.
The waitress filled our cups and we both leaned back, our knees knocking due to the narrowness of the booth. Tinker poured cream in his coffee and stirred it round and round and round. For a moment, we were both quiet.
âItâs churches, I said.
He looked a little confused.
âWhat is?
âThatâs where I go when I want to be alone.
He sat upright again.
âChurches?
I pointed out the window toward Trinity. For over half a century, its steeple had been the highest point in Manhattan and a welcome sight to sailors. Now, you had to be in a diner across the street just to see it.
âReally! Tinker said.
âDoes that surprise you?
âNo. Itâs just that you donât strike me as the religious sort.
âIâm not. But I donât go during the services. I go in the off-hours.
âTo Trinity?
âTo all sorts. But I prefer the big old ones like Saint Patrickâs and Saint Michaelâs.
âI think Iâve been in Saint Barthâs for a wedding. But thatâs about it. I must have walked by Trinity a thousand times without stepping inside.
âThatâs whatâs amazing. At two in the afternoon thereâs nobody in any of them. There they sit with all that stone and mahogany and stained glassâand theyâre empty. I mean, they must have been crowded at one point, right?âfor someone to have gone to all that trouble. There must have been lines outside the confessionals and weddings with girls dropping flower petals in the aisle.
âFrom baptisms to eulogies. . . .
âExactly. But over time the congregation has been winnowed away. The newcomers set up their own churches and the big old ones just get left aloneâlike the elderlyâwith memories of their heyday. I find it very peaceful to be in their company.
Tinker was quiet for a moment. He looked up at Trinity where a pair of seagulls circled the steeple for old timeâs sake.
âThatâs really great, he said.
I toasted him with my coffee cup.
âItâs
âWhen my brother saw it, he gave me hell. He didnât like that it was gold or that it was monogrammed. But what really ticked him off was my job. Weâd get together for a beer in the Village and heâd rail against bankers and Wall Street and jab me with my plans of traveling the world. I kept telling him I was going to get around to that too. So finally, one night he took the lighter out into the street and had a vendor add the postscript.
âAs a reminder to seize the day whenever you lit a girlâs cigarette?
âSomething like that.
âWell, your job doesnât sound so bad to me.
âNo, he admitted. Itâs not bad. Itâs just . . .
Tinker looked out on Broadway, gathering his thoughts.
âI remember Mark Twain writing about an old man who piloted a bargeâthe kind that ferried people from a landing on one side of the river to a landing on the other.
âIn Life on the Mississippi ?
âI donât know. Maybe. Anywayâover thirty years, Twain figured this man had shuttled back and forth so often that heâd traveled the length of the river twenty times over, without leaving his county.
Tinker smiled and shook his head.
âThatâs what I feel like sometimes. Like half my clients are on their way to Alaska while the other half are on their way to the Evergladesâand Iâm the one going from riverbank to riverbank.
âRefill? the waitress asked, coffeepot in hand.
Tinker looked to me.
The girls at Quiggin & Hale had forty-five minutes for lunch and I was in the habit of being in front of my typewriter with a few minutes to spare. If I left right then, I could probably make it. I could thank Tinker for the lunch, jog up Nassau, and catch the elevator to the sixteenth floor. But what would the latitude be for a girl who was usually prompt? Five minutes? Ten? Fifteen if she broke a heel?
âSure, I said.
The waitress filled our cups and we both leaned back, our knees knocking due to the narrowness of the booth. Tinker poured cream in his coffee and stirred it round and round and round. For a moment, we were both quiet.
âItâs churches, I said.
He looked a little confused.
âWhat is?
âThatâs where I go when I want to be alone.
He sat upright again.
âChurches?
I pointed out the window toward Trinity. For over half a century, its steeple had been the highest point in Manhattan and a welcome sight to sailors. Now, you had to be in a diner across the street just to see it.
âReally! Tinker said.
âDoes that surprise you?
âNo. Itâs just that you donât strike me as the religious sort.
âIâm not. But I donât go during the services. I go in the off-hours.
âTo Trinity?
âTo all sorts. But I prefer the big old ones like Saint Patrickâs and Saint Michaelâs.
âI think Iâve been in Saint Barthâs for a wedding. But thatâs about it. I must have walked by Trinity a thousand times without stepping inside.
âThatâs whatâs amazing. At two in the afternoon thereâs nobody in any of them. There they sit with all that stone and mahogany and stained glassâand theyâre empty. I mean, they must have been crowded at one point, right?âfor someone to have gone to all that trouble. There must have been lines outside the confessionals and weddings with girls dropping flower petals in the aisle.
âFrom baptisms to eulogies. . . .
âExactly. But over time the congregation has been winnowed away. The newcomers set up their own churches and the big old ones just get left aloneâlike the elderlyâwith memories of their heyday. I find it very peaceful to be in their company.
Tinker was quiet for a moment. He looked up at Trinity where a pair of seagulls circled the steeple for old timeâs sake.
âThatâs really great, he said.
I toasted him with my coffee cup.
âItâs
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