One day I was riding through the East Village in a taxi with a friend of a friend. At the time, I think I might have been 35 years old, and I think he was in his 70s.

As we passed a street corner, I looked out the window and I must have let out a subconscious murmur under my breath. “What is it?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing. I just, … well … I just remembered I, used to know someone who lived on that corner,” I tried to explain.


“Well, I have so many memories of this place. I didn’t realize exactly where we were, but now seeing this street, those memories all came to life. I had forgotten, but just now it’s back — stories from a very different time in my life.”

After a long pause, he gave a wry smile and said, “Son, I’ve lived in this city many more years than you. When you’re here long enough, eventually you have a story or memory like that for every corner.”

Older man in tweed jacket with grey hair, short beard, and kind smile.
Richard at New Year’s Eve party, January 1, 2012