Ed looked as if he were in his seventies, with short grey hair and rimless glasses. He had a slight build and was wearing a pale peach woollen sweater, which seemed to help him blend in to the cold white walls around them.
They shook hands and Ed motioned for him to sit. ‘I’ve already seen some of your stuff via Billy – it's great.’
The three of them spent a little while going over the preparations for the upcoming exhibition and what was required. By the time they were finished, Greg felt more confident that things would work out brilliantly. Imagine, his work being part of a major exhibition in the Historical Society. It didn’t get much better.
Eventually, Ingrid excused herself and Ed and Greg were left alone.
‘Coffee?’ Ed offered. Greg nodded, shivering; it sure was cold down in the basement.
Ed laughed. ‘Teeth chattering yet?’
‘Almost. How do you stand it?’
‘Have to, no money for oil in this joint.’
Greg warmed his hands around the coffee mug and let the steam warm his face.
‘So, just breaking into the business, huh?’ Ed continued.
‘Yep. Bit of a baptism of fire, I suppose.’
‘These sneakers aren’t just a fashion statement you know.’ He stretched out his feet to admire his own footwear. ‘I often have to run up and down the hall to warm up.’
Greg laughed.
‘I'm serious,’ Ed insisted.
‘No money in the arts, is that what you're trying to tell me?’ he said woefully, thinking about Karen’s likely reaction to his newest work colleague. ‘I think I’m beginning to figure that out.’
After leaving the gallery, Greg headed to First Avenue and Eighty-Seventh Street in the hope of racking up work that, while not quite lucrative, was at least paid.
Glaser’s bakery was right where it had been when he’d first visited with his mother so many years ago. He crossed the street to take some photos from the outside. When he thought he’d shot it from almost every angle possible, he went inside.
In almost thirty years, nothing had changed. The bakery string was still unwound from a spool that hung from the ceiling, the floor was still intricate marble mosaic, and the display cases the same wooden and glass. There was a huge cracked mirror on one wall and another slanted mirror on the other. The old cash register was just the same, big and bronze and old looking. He felt six years old again; hanging onto his mother’s hands as she picked out bear claws and scones.
‘Why is there a slanted mirror?’ he had asked her.
‘So they can see behind them,’ she had replied. ‘They’re looking for thieves.’
And Greg had felt sad. If you were hungry enough to steal from a baker, maybe you really needed it.
Greg snapped back to the present as a young woman, dressed in traditional baking cloths and apron, asked him if needed help. She looked to have come straight out of another era, save for the pierced eyebrow and arms covered with tattoos.
He took out the release forms theNYThad faxed him over earlier that morning and explained about the Christmas piece, asking for the owner.
The owner was young – a fourth-generation baker –and he willingly signed the forms and let Greg take as many pictures as he wanted. As Greg wandered around the premises and snapped away, he wished his mom was here to see this; she’d have loved it.
When he’d finished, he thanked the girl behind the counter and shook hands with the owner, who pushed a bag of fresh-out-of-the-oven doughnuts into his hands.
Greg took them willingly and strapped them to the back of his bike - but not before taking one out to sample. Tasting the doughnut was like stepping back in time, and he felt nostalgic as he pedalled over towards Central Park and his next stop.
He had just taken photos of the bakery he and his mom used to visit when he was a child, and now he was going to take pictures of the ice-skating rink he used to frequent as a teenager. His throat constricted.
Wollman Rink was a popular meeting spot. In the past Greg and his friends would meet here for hot dogs and hot chocolate, and then speed off on the ice looking to bump into pretty girls.
Reaching Fifth-Ninth Street at the edge of the park, he got off his bike to walk the rest of the way. A thin string of fairy lights were looped around the edges of the rink and, as it came into view, Greg could see a few skaters making lazy figure eights on the ice. He chained his bike up and made his way down to the entrance.
He spoke briefly to the girl at the ticket kiosk, outlining his intentions, and waited while she took the time to clear it with the top brass.
