I LIKE MIKE
Men come and men go and some leave behind I-wish-I-had-killed him memories and others, a smile. Mike was a Brit, told great stories and was enchantingly witty. (And here I confess I had a “thing” for Brits. Perhaps I ingested too many Peter O’Toole movies at an impressionable age.)
One evening, we (Mike, not Peter) were at the River Cafe , a restaurant on the water’s edge in Brooklyn, with spectacular views of Manhattan. We’d finished dinner and were debating dessert, to have or have not and decided on after dinner drinks - I don’t remember what Mike had, but my passion for chocolate was and is insatiable and so I had a Bailey’s, not sophisticated but deliciously pleasing ( I keep a bottle in my fridge).
I do remember we left the restaurant laughing, a full moon in the sky and we decided to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge before hailing a taxi. About halfway across, a man in dark clothes jumped out from behind a pillar and suddenly there was a knife at my throat, it happened exactly the way it does in a movie. He yelled at Mike to throw down his rings, his watch, his wallet and Mike never hesitated. The man grabbed my antique beaded bag (I used to collect them) and ran off. Now, for as long as I can remember, I’ve had (and still have) a nearly pathological fear of losing my keys and not being able to get into my home, no matter where I’ve lived. Mike ran after the guy shouting her keys, her keys, just throw down her keys - and an angel was watching, because my keys landed on the ground and the man kept running.
Mike was in command (there are times when a man in command is a beautiful thing). Two cabs drove off after hearing we had no money and I remember thinking, sure this is New York, but really? Third time, a charm, a kind driver picked us up, drove us to the nearest police station. Mike explained the situation and one of New York’s finest drove us to my apartment (I still remember wishing he had put on the siren). And while I was safe, no way was I calm. I wanted to sleep and sleep and sleep. So Mike tucked me in, kissed me on the forehead, went to sleep on the sofa and I fell into a dreamless sleep.
When I woke up, Mike was gone, my keys were on the table, next to a little box of Godiva chocolates. We continued to see each other for a few years, Mike remained Chief Captain and Pilot of the Concorde until it stopped flying and much to my everlasting regret, I was never a passenger.
The Magical River Cafe, Brooklyn Bridge in the Background Photos by Sandra Novick
