“I can’t take you into the museum itself,” Rooney says, tugging on her hat. “But I’ve decided to show you My Spot.”
We walk the rest of the avenue and down one block around what would be the back of the museum. We cross the street. Rooney makes an immediate left turn into an alleyway so narrow, I almost miss it. A flimsy fence door blocks our path. We don’t turn around. Rooney fiddles with the hook and opens the door wide enough for us to fit through.
More illicit activities. Before I can panic or identify security cameras, we’ve arrived.
It’s a small opening tucked between the forgotten back areas of a restaurant and a spa. In the daylight, this space might feel less claustrophobic. In the darkness, there’s only light from nearby streetlamps and store signs that probably never turn off.
Despite where it’s located, Rooney’s Spot is immaculate. There’s an ornate metal bench lined up against the side of a brick wall. In the center of a circular patch of grass is a modern sculpture.
“It’s calledX Marks The,” Rooney says with a sly smile. She watches as I survey the space.
“Hence it being your Spot.”
Literally. It’s an outdoor sculpture about three feet high. A steel “X” on a three-dimensional sphere. An “XO” or an “OX” depending on which way you look at it.
“The artist made the sculpture just for this secret hideaway,” she says.
“Is it secret if people know about it?” I ask.
Rooney shoots me a look as she settles into the bench that looks unworn by visitors. “Not a lot of people do know. The key to this garden is the knowledge that it even exists.”
“Sure. Yep. A mental key,” I say. “How do you even know about this place? If it’s such a secret and all.”
Rooney looks around at the square cutout. “I found it randomly one night as a kid.”
“You came here as a kid? Maybe no one knows about it, but there’s no way that’s safe.”
She shrugs. “This city is my home. It’s what I know. This Spot was my escape. I would come here when I needed distance from my mom.”
I join Rooney on the bench and face her as she talks.
“I spent a lot of time with her growing up,” she says. “It was just us two. She was—is—a force. Sometimes she’s too much to be around. Topics of conversation usually end up about her.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “She always knows what to say about things, always has an opinion. That doesn’t leave much room for others who are trying to find their voice.”
The veil of Rooney’s confident demeanor slips. Her edges start to poke through.
“No. It doesn’t,” I say, knowing exactly what she means.
“Her star was so bright, sometimes I had to duck for cover. I found that here.”
Instead of being a dark, dingy back alley, The Spot takes a new form. A soft place to land among concrete and steel.
“Thank you for sharing your Spot with me,” I say. “I won’t tell a soul.”
“You don’t realize how much faith I just put in you, Jack,” she says. “In hindsight, that may have been too much responsibility to give you all at once. And too much trust. You’re not a journalist, are you? You don’t write pieces on What to Do with Twenty-Four Hours in Various Cities around the World, right?”
I lift my left eyebrow. “I can’t confirm whether I do or not,” I say, “but you can look out for my next piece about New York City and the hidden hideaway near MoMA. It’ll be live next week. Let me just take some photos while we’re here.” I dramatically reach for my cell phone in my pocket.
Rooney’s eyes widen, and she pushes my arm playfully. “Try it!”
The sounds of our laughter blend together.
“I can’t have a photo to remember this by?” I ask. I press the side of my phone, but it stays dark. “Great, my phone’s dead.”
“Here,” she says, snapping a photo with her phone. “I’ll text it to you. But you must swear on your life you won’t show anyone. What’s your number?”
I tell her my number as she taps it into a new message.
“Was that a five or a nine at the end?” she clarifies.
