David Mogen At Your Service

The hit-and-run summer thunderstorm caught me unprepared, as I stood in front of the aged brownstone on 45th Street waiting for my ride to Carnegie Hall. I carried no umbrella and the onslaught threatened to drench my rented tuxedo, so I hastily took refuge down a short series of concrete steps, under the eave of adjoining basement apartments.

Soon, a large unkempt man wearing a filthy green overcoat and cloth gloves joined me. A certain repugnant stench pervaded the small area we shared, although he seemed oblivious to both the odor and my presence. Staring blankly out onto the street, he soon pulled a large paper bag from one of his overcoat pockets. Never losing his fixed gaze, the man allowed the bag to slip off, revealing a bottle of Ripple Port. Possessed of a diamond cutter’s precision, he screwed the top off the bottle and flicked it onto the concrete in prelude to the rising curtain of his little one-man show.

No dehydrated Andes crash survivor ever attacked a bottle with greater gusto. His sallow cheeks pulsed with each glug as the ruby liquid flowed unerringly into his bottomless pit, his thirst seemingly un-sated even as the last drops disappeared. It couldn’t have taken him more than twenty seconds to drain the entire liter. Once assured that the bottle was empty, he tossed it aside along with the bag and cap. I watched his face contort into a grimace as he beat his chest with his fist, forcing out a belch that reverberated across the small enclosure. At any moment, I suspected he’d start relieving himself, forcing me to dance to avoid the splash on my patent leather Gucci’s.

It is precisely that moment he first saw me. I interpreted his expression as embarrassment, although I must admit it could certainly have been gas. He then put his forefinger to his lips (no doubt a pregnant pause to collect his thoughts) and taking a cautious step toward me, said, “I detect a piquant tartness at first taste, delicately subsiding into a gracious, subtle nuance. A rather impetuous nose, unpretentiously fruity, delightfully broadcast across the palate!”

I’ll never know whether he thought it had stopped raining or if he just didn’t care that it hadn’t, but he made no effort to shield himself from the downpour as he steadied himself and began his journey back up the stairs, teetering with each step.

Momentarily, he stopped, and with a glint in his eye, he peered briefly back over his shoulder at me.

“You’ll forgive my manners, I hope,” he offered. “These days, sharing doesn’t come as naturally as it might once have.” And he disappeared around the corner.

I like to think that as I sit in this theater, somewhere he’s acquired yet another carafe and is even now teaching his cronies the finer points of wine tasting… and I pray I’m not asked to explain my grin.