In a New York minute ...(part 1)

“Hey mister, do you have a cigarette?” “Hey, I ‘m speaking to you mister”
The ageless, faceless, nameless man who sat on the corner of the street engulfed in a big dark blue coat had asked him this question for the last six years. The man had sat there in the mornings, as people rushed past to the subway station, and made their ways to banks and boutiques and delis, and he had been there in the evenings when they rushed back again to go the gym, to take their kids for ballet class, to feed their cat, to make dinner, to watch TV. And he had sat there as the sweltering summers gave way to the frostiness of New York winters. In the past, Sameer had often stopped to give him a cigarette and sometimes money, but as the years went by the man had just become a distant voice that he heard while he waited for the lights to turn green.

It had been a tough day for Sameer. He had made an aggressive, speculative investment that had not turned out the way he had hoped, and though risk and loss was integral to the hedge fund business, not winning his bets was still something that irked him. But then, it was precisely his instinct to win that had made his boutique hedge fund so successful. His fund had even managed to stay afloat through the stock market crash that had taken down bigger names. Sameer had come to New York in the early 1990s, and in the span of ten years he had made his way to the top of the corporate ladder. This is what he loved about the city – the opportunities it offered to make it big. He felt driven by the energy, the greed for power and the hunger for success.

He walked past the art galleries, and the coffee shops to his apartment in a red brick row house on Avenue B in Alphabet city – the trendier part of East Village. It had once been a slum, and then it had been a bohemian hang out for writers and artists. And when writers and artists flock to a place, yuppies are not far behind – and now this was a yuppfied neighborhood that still had a little bit a of bohemian, quaint coffee shop charm. Ironically enough, the real artists and writers were driven out because they could no longer afford the place. Alphabet street got its names from Avenue A, B, C and D . East village wisdom has it - Avenue A, you're Alright, Avenue B, you're Brave., Avenue C, you're Crazy , Avenue D, you're Dead.

Sameer picked up his mail from the hallway, and walked up the stairs to his 3 bedroom apartment which had sunny yellow walls that were adorned the by the artwork of up and coming artists. Despite the fact that he lived alone, the apartment was well-kept . Modern and antique furniture were put together in a casual way – a casualness that had been carefully arranged. He went to the kicthen, and opened his mail. It was the usual assortment of bank statements, bills, discount coupons , and then he saw an envelope with a hand written address on it. He rarely got any personal mail, except from his mother in India. He tore open the envelope, and pulled out a card. On expensive ivory paper, in gold letters were the words, “You are warmly invited to the wedding celebration of Abigail Rosenberg and Joshua Stiener. “