The Fig Thieves

I have a big fig tree in my back yard. When I moved in, it was nothing more than a twig, but through the years, it has grown straight and strong as an ox with no help from me. By August, its burly branches are loaded with the purple globes that are as sweet as pure cane sugar. Let me clarify that: I assume they are sweet for it is rare that I am allowed to taste them. Before I pick them — poof! – they vanish like rabbits in a magician’s hat. One of the few figs the Fig Thieves…

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The Artistic Acupuncturist

There’s a guitar right in the middle of the living room floor. On the bookcase, there’s a mannequin’s head marked up with acupuncture points whose colored lines make it look like a subway map. And in the art studio, visible through the glass-knobbed French doors, there’s an unfinished oil painting of bright yellow flowers in a vase. The lights are low. The sweet scent of incense fills the air with Zen serenity. “Let me sing for you,” says Kenny Lockwood. Kenny…

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The Veteran Bookseller, the Sequel

Where’s Harry? That’s what we’ve all been asking since spring, when Harry Fiegelson didn’t show up on his usual corner at 31st and Ditmars to sell us his used books and to show us that everything was right with the world. At first, when he didn’t pop out with the crocuses, I wasn’t concerned. Perhaps he was waiting until the weather was warmer. But when his spot was taken over by an interloper selling fruits and vegetables, a thousand alarm bells went off. Harry…

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The Garden Guys

At the end of Hazen Street, where the cars on Astoria Boulevard whoosh by like rockets, a garden center grows. Verni’s, as it is called, is shaded by a green awning that is the color of a woodland forest. The sun is out, the plants are panting for a cool drink, and Frank Verni puts down his breakfast, a bowl of cold cereal, and takes up the hose. He and his brother, John Verni, divide up the daily duties, and he is the water boy. “To do it right,” he says, “you have to go…

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The Saw Lady

The sound swells like an ocean wave until it fills the room with its eerie, otherworldly vibrations. At its height, it screams like a Siren then suddenly sinks into a soulful sotto voce. Does this tune come from heaven or hell? It emanates from a saw — the carpenter’s tool that’s used to cut wood. “People tell me that it doesn’t sound anything like they thought it would,” says The Saw Lady, who gives the instrument its voice. “Some people even think I’m…

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