11:00 p.m., Brooklyn summer night.
On the streetcorner, a man–thinning hair, polo shirt, lanyard, long shorts–stands expectantly, hands clasped behind his back, next to a big telescope set up on a tripod. The street is deserted except for the two of us.
Me: What are you looking at?
Man: Venus. Do you want to see? There’s no charge.
Me: Sure.
Man: Take your glasses off.
I bend down and look up at Venus, bright and scintillating, the only object visible in the New York night sky.
Man: In a magazine it says that they call it the gold planet.
Me: Really?
Man: I don’t know if that’s true.
Me: Do you come out here with your telescope a lot?
Man: Oh yes. Every clear night, unless I don’t feel well or I don’t feel like looking through a telescope. I listen to 1010 WINS, and every time I hear them say “clear tonight” or “tonight clear” I know that tonight will be a telescope night. I’m Robert.
Me: I’m Madeleine.
Man: Thank you for looking at Venus, Madeleine.
