I lost a sheaf of particularly important photos when my hard drive died its terrible death.
I have a clique of friends with whom I meet at a park in midtown (it’s one of those mini-parks built by a developer–in New York one can circumvent some building ordinances by putting a little public space on your property) and have coffee and banana bread. The kiosk used to sell the coffee for fifty cents; we took to calling it Fiddy.
(The kiosk recently upped the price to 75 cents–I mean, $0.50 is just ridiculous, really–and we had a small crisis. What do we call the place now? But it occurred to us that the place’s name really never was Fiddy, it’s _______ Park. So it’s still Fiddy to us.)
I brought the camera out there a couple weeks ago–the whole contingent was there–the full coterie–and I took a series of photos–everyone having coffee, laughing, everybody’s smiling, and then going to a diner and eating eggs.
It was really beautiful, and I was hoping it would be the kind of thing where I could take out the computer if I was, say, blue in Omaha, and have a Virtua-Fiddy to soothe my homesickness.
So I’m pretty aggrieved at the loss.
But, it’s funny–I remember each of those photos so specifically–it’s almost like I actually did end up with my Virtua-Fiddy to keep in my pocket for a lonely day. Kind of like when you write a number down and it becomes etched in your memory.