Last night I was walking my dog and heard a booming tenor as soon as I opened our front door. “Every time we say goodbye, I die a little,” the swooning sound echoed around the block. I knew it was someone singing live and not a recording, and assumed it was a street performer. When I rounded the corner, I saw a balding, overweight man with his mouth open wide, singing from his diaphragm. Both his hands were joined with those of his date, a significantly taller woman in a striking red coat. He was singing not six inches from her face at full volume with all the longing and romance of Cole Porter. He fancied up the ending with a little trill, and when his voice rang out the last note, everyone in the area gave a quiet clap (we’re all wearing gloves).
I started laughing out loud thinking about the circumstance of this up-close-and-personal serenade. Was this what he did every night? Did she request this song? Was this a first date?
It’s hard to think of a situation that would make such a show “appropriate”
under normal circumstances, but it certainly felt distinctly New York.
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