One day, after taking an American Express card, I did a double-take at the name embossed on it: Lou Reed.
I poked my head out, gesturing wildly toward my father. On the other side of the counter, I glimpsed a figure in black leather.
“Daddy,” I said, “that’s Lou Reed!”
My father, who tuned in to the local Yiddish-language radio station when he wasn’t listening to WQXR, offered a dubious response.
“Who’s Lou Reed?”
I rolled my eyes.
“He’s a rock star,” I whispered.
My father, unimpressed, returned to the counter. I tiptoed behind, my mouth agape as I stared at the familiar, craggy, handsome face.
“Mr. Reed,” my father said in his thick Polish accent, “my daughter thinks she knows you?”
Lou Reed blinked. One corner of his mouth quivered into the slightest of smiles.