Cony Island, New York. June 2011

I’m sitting at a bench, next to Paul’s Daughter (since 1962) cold clams, cold beers, Italian sausage, seafood, drinking coffee.
Father and son join me at the bench. The father nods, gestures. I say yes, it’s ok the seats free. He sits down. The boy stays standing. Father, camera in hand says,

‘Hey Joey, look at me. C’mon look this way. Yeah that’s great, show those teeth, smile. Yeah again, great got that.’

He calls over to his wife, says something, moving rapidly between languages. The wife answers in English saying she’ll look later, that just now, can’t he see, she’s got her hands full with their other son.
Joey looks at me, shows his father a small car he says he’s just found.

‘Hey dad, what kind of car’s this?’

The father answers but I don’t catch what he says.

The boy says,

‘How d’you know that?’

‘Cos I read a lot, I pay attention to my environment. I look.’

‘Cool.’

‘Yeah, cool. C’mon then.’

I watch the family walk away along Reigelmann Boardwalk.
I finish my coffee, throw the polystyrene cup into a waste bin and continue walking towards Brighton Beach.

Midwood, New York. June 2011

Before I leave for New York I receive an email giving me the keypad code for the front door to the hotel, and instructing me, on arrival, to collect the envelope that I will find on the table in the lobby, next to the office.
The envelope is there and next to it a stack of street plans of the immediate area. I pick one up, along with the envelope.
In the envelope I find the keypad code for my room, along with four slips of paper stapled together. On each dated slip, the same name, The Bagel Hole, and below that, on a separate line, complimentary breakfast, value $7.50. 7.30-11.30am. 
The first slip is dated for the following day.
I’m tired and hungry, jetlagged, and so the slips are placed on a small bedside table in my room, and I leave the hotel in search of somewhere to eat.
On the corner of East 15^th Street and Avenue J and opposite to where I’m standing waiting for the lights to change, I see The Bagel Hole, closed.
My breakfast.
It’s 7.30am and The Bagel Hole is busy. I stand in line, wait my turn.  Around me mostly men wearing black jackets and trousers, white shirts. Black shoes. Some wear fedoras.
It’s my turn and I’m asked what I want. I tell him,

‘Omelette, no bagel.’

He looks at me,

‘No bagel?’

‘No bagel.’

‘And coffee?’

‘Yes, coffee.’

‘Ok.’

I hand him my breakfast slip. He looks at it, nods, hands it back.
I sit at a narrow counter looking out on to the street, which is busy for a Sunday morning. Youths stand outside, propped against bikes, eating bagels, talking loudly, laughing.
A small boy passes in front of the window wearing a fedora that looks too big on his small head. He glances at me, looks away quickly.
The assistant calls over,

‘Omelette, no bagel.’

I hand him the slip and he says,

‘You need to take something else. You still got money on this. Large coffee? Salad?’

I say,

‘Ok, large coffee, and a green salad, oh and yes, tomato too. That’s ok, that’s enough.’

He looks at me, shrugs his shoulders, points to the range of coffee machines occupying one wall. I see everything from de-caf, through flavoured, to regular.
I take a medium regular, pick up my omelette, green salad, tomato salad and leave.