Paul Mescal, My 80-Year-Old Friend Rick, and Other Unexpected Gifts
A last-minute theater miracle, an unexpected new bestie, and the kind of night that reminds me why there’s truly no place like New York.
These are the kinds of days that remind me why I love this city. Maybe this will become a thing—a dispatch from the streets, a love letter to the serendipity of New York, a diary entry dressed up as a story. Let’s see where it takes us:)
Yesterday, the morning unraveled slowly, like a cat stretching in a sunbeam. I was attempting (and failing) to work from home, so I packed up and retreated to the Center for Fiction, my sanctuary for writing, reading, and pretending I have my life together.
And then it hit me—I was right by BAM, and I desperately wanted to see A Streetcar Named Desire (not just for the Paul Mescal of it all—though let’s be honest, that was a factor—but because this was the first play I ever saw in New York when I moved here for the first time at the tender and bewildered age of 20). I had been trying to score an affordable ticket for months to no avail. But something about the way the sun was shining, the collective we are outside energy buzzing through the streets, made me feel lucky. So I marched to the box office, half-hoping the universe would conspire in my favor.
And then—the moment of magic.
The woman at the counter checked her system and said, almost casually, “I actually have two seats that just opened up.” Before I could even fully process my euphoria, another voice—someone clearly Important—piped up: “She can pay the cheaper price, but bump her to the better seat.”
Center orchestra.
Reader, I nearly ascended.
Buoyed by this divine intervention, I floated back to the library, managed to squeeze in a bit more work (though let’s be real, I mostly just basked in my own good fortune), took myself out to dinner, and then trotted to BAM at 7:30, heart thudding with the kind of excitement that only unexpected plans can provide.
And that’s when I met Rick.
An older gentleman, slightly wobbly on his feet, shuffled into the seat next to me. He had the kind of presence that felt both distinguished and endearingly chaotic, like a professor who could give an impassioned lecture on existentialism but has definitely misplaced his glasses three times today.
We started talking before the play, then during intermission, and then—because we were clearly destined to be scene partners in this particular act of my life—after.
Turns out, Rick goes to the theater every single night. And has been doing so for the last fifty years. Fifty years! He had just seen Andrew Scott in Vanya at the Lucille Lortel Theatre the night before. He found it delightfully serendipitous that now, mere hours later, he was watching Paul Mescal. (He, too, loved All of Us Strangers, because of course he did.)
One of his quirks? He never claps immediately when a play ends. It irks him how quickly people break the spell, yanking themselves back to reality like someone waking up from a dream with an alarm blaring. And honestly? I get it. Some moments deserve to linger.
At some point in our conversation, it dawned on me—I was having my very own The Holiday moment. You know, like in the movie, when Kate Winslet befriends that older Hollywood screenwriter and suddenly finds herself swept into a friendship that feels both improbable and inevitable. That was me, sitting across from this fascinating man, sipping iced tea and trading thoughts on life and art, feeling like I’d stepped into a scene written just for me.
Turns out, Rick had two entirely different lives—one as a physician, the other as a theater and music composer. He spoke about both with the kind of reverence and casual detachment that only someone who has truly lived can.
And then—because the night wasn’t done with me yet—he told me he was currently working on the engravings for his own tombstone. I blinked. That wasn’t where I expected this conversation to go.
He asked if I had ever thought about my own. I told him I want everyone to show up at my funeral in monochrome—but in bold colors, like a Wes Anderson dream sequence. And, of course, I expect devastation. I want people inconsolable, clutching tissues, speaking in hushed tones about how they’ll never recover. But also—and this is crucial—I want them to be cackling. At some point in the proceedings, I need there to be a moment so absurd, so unhinged, that someone has to step outside to regain composure. My final gift: emotional whiplash. A last hurrah in my honor. 🌝🌈
Rick chuckled, stirring his iced tea, and admitted that when he was my age, he never thought about death at all.
And somewhere between the laughter and the existential musings, I realized: this was exactly the kind of moment that keeps me tethered to this city. The unpredictability of it. The absurdity. The intimacy of strangers who will never be strangers again. The way a casual decision can unravel into a full-fledged adventure.
This city is both exhausting and exhilarating, but the real secret? The best nights—the real New York nights—aren’t planned. They sneak up on you, they hijack your schedule, they demand that you stay out past your bedtime 👵🏽, talking to someone you never expected to meet, walking streets you’ve walked a hundred times before but now feel brand new.
Because as much as New York is about its skyline, its chaos, and its relentless pace, what makes it truly magic is its people—the ones you know, the ones you love, and the ones you meet by sheer accident on an otherwise ordinary night.
Dispatches from a Night That Almost Didn’t HappenGo out alone. The city has a way of introducing you to exactly who you need.
Befriend people decades older (or younger) than you. The best conversations stretch across time.
Say yes to the unexpected. The best nights never start as plans.
Talk to strangers. They might just rewrite your night—or your life.
Let the moment breathe. Don’t be the first to break the spell.
Always check the box office. The universe rewards the bold.
Honor your parents. Seize the day. Be curious. (Rick’s future tombstone wisdom.)
Never underestimate the power of a well-timed iced tea and a night that refuses to end.
Design your funeral like you’d design your best party. Make them weep, make them laugh, and leave them talking.
New York, you maddening, magnificent thing. I’ll never stop loving you—nor the people who make you electric, infuriating, and impossibly alive.
Con Cariño,
Sue
Touching. Beautiful.
i loved this story and nights like this. new york city, you magic thing. cheers to the enchantments in the unexpected xx