I was heading up Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard to Maud’s yesterday, and a store uncle standing in his doorway watching the world go by—

(Question: is any older uncle type “uncle,” or do they have to be Chinese? Because it occurs to me that if he were Indian, he would be “mama,” and if he were Malay, one might qualify the term as “Malay uncle.” But if he’s black? Or white? Or Latino? Are all uncles “uncle”?)

(How come Carrie Bradshaw, sitting in her Village apartment in little heels and fancy bloomers, never types these sorts of questions on “Sex and the City”?)

—said, as I walked past, “Welcome to Harlem, Beautiful,” which was, if you’re going to get heckled when you’re out and about, probably the best way to get heckled when you’re out and about.

When I got to her street, I’d forgotten which house exactly her apartment is in. I stopped in front of a familiar building for the slightest of moments with a question mark over my head, and then the scent of orange blossom water in the air confirmed I’d arrived.

Upstairs, there was freshly baked gingerbread and homemade applesauce and tea in a gold teapot. There was also a new French girl, and, soon, a French boy. And we likes French girls, but we likes French boys.

At one point Tom called. “I’m at Maud’s,” I said. “We’re having tea.” “Already?” he asked. “What d’you mean ‘already’? It’s like five o’clock; it’s time for tea.” “Isn’t it too early?” he said. “Um, maybe you’re thinking of beer,” I said. “Oh, yeah,” he said, “I get them mixed up.”

I was sitting, legs crossed, on a chair in the small kitchen, facing the wood chopping-block table and a rack of salt and spices. And Maud was talking in the next room, and Tom was talking in my ear, and there was a sense, the gingerbread smell and the gingerbread light curling and swirling around me, that this was home.

He asked later if I was still moving to London. “I just don’t know,” I said. “The thing is, if I move to London and something goes wrong and I feel bad, I can’t just call you.” “Well,” he said, “you could still call me.” “Okay, yes, but then we wouldn’t be able to immediately meet for a drink downtown.” “Yes,” he said, “your moving to London would preempt the drink.” “Damn.” “So, okay,” he said, “so don’t move.” “Mm.”

By the time the sun set, Maud and I were delirious with blowing off schoolwork midweek. We hopped the 2 train, me and Gab and Maud, heading for junk food and a movie. At Big Nick’s, there was a table outside in the cool evening, and an Aloha Burger that arrived with ham and a slice of pineapple and a paper demitasse of sweet macaroni salad. Inside, the crush. Under handwritten signs touting clams and chips and a one-pound Sumo Burger, the grill spat and smoked. On the lunch counter, shielded under plastic domes, portions of layered cakes, fat and smug, leaned over from the weight of thick, white cream.



On the way to “Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow,” Maud let slip that Jude Law is, apparently, s-h-o-r-t. Not that that’s a problem to me and my hundred-and-fifty-seven centimeters of pot-calling-the-kettle-black. It was just a surprise is all; dude has an air of height. Over a bag of Sour Patch Kids on my right and one of peanut M&Ms on my left, the movie was all gunmetal-shiny and Russian-avant-garde and “Metropolis” and the-future-is-now. There was Gwyneth Paltrow in the plane doing loop-de-loops, her hair swirling blond about her head, underwater in the air; there was Angelina Jolie ejecting from her submaplane and rocketing off into the sky like cool; there was action and adventure and style enough that I only wondered four times if Jude Law was standing on a box.