Dear Diary:
On my bike, downhill on Henry, no jacket, trees in full bloom. There is no turning back from spring. It can’t possibly get any better than this.
I turn onto State Street. In front of a brownstone, the sidewalk is lined with rows of people sitting in white folding chairs. I recognize my friend Erica. The driver waiting for the light to change is leaning out his car window.
Across the street, a small crowd has gathered. Some hard-core bike riders are off their seats, legs straddled, feet planted. A woman is leaning against her boyfriend. Nestled in his arms, she looks blissful. An old man with oddly long and oddly blond hair isn’t moving. A Nordic hippie in a polo shirt. Does he live in the Heights? Why have I never seen him before?
Everyone is staring raptly into an open window.
Suddenly, it all clicks. They’re looking at the back of a piano. Halting chords register. Something familiar, defiantly not classical. A pop song, but I can’t place the era.
A recital?
I spot a sign taped to the glass: “The 4th Window Concert.â€
The piece comes to a rollicking finish and the crowd applauds. A young boy appears in the window. He bows, so quickly that I barely see him, then disappears.
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