On my seventh night in New York City I ended up, almost accidentally, living out a fantasy of mine — mingling with writers and photographers, in an expensive Upper West Side apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows, drinking a hundred-dollar bottle of wine.
Some details were different, however. In the master bedroom was a sea of baseballs. A rainbow of throw pillows covered half the main room. There was a vintage Arkanoidarcade machine on the other wall — the host was a contender for world champion. The bathroom was wallpapered entirely in business cards. The woman I was talking to was naked and I was in my underwear.