The wind whistled and seagulls cawed. Pam pushed a stroller and I held Emma’s hand as we walked the length of the pier in autumn. Empty except for a few Chinese fishermen and another couple with a kid. I took Pam’s picture with the girls. I can’t remember if it ever came out. We smelled the salt and listened to the girls giggle at the birds, a sound like popcorn or champagne bubbles. There’s not much to do out on a pier, but you can spend a long time there. Finally we turned around and headed back, passing the other couple. The woman tall, blond, holding a girl against her hip. The man, shorter, rounded, with a nose like Saint Nick. Pam stopped short. “I know you,” she said to him.
“Yeah, ok. Hi,” he said, good-naturedly, or not.
“Did we go to high school together?” she asked. He gave a little laugh. “No really,” she begged.
The couple smiled and walked farther down the pier. We continued on our way. “I can’t remember where I know him from,” she thought aloud.
“Are you joking, Pam?”
“What do you mean?”
“That was Billy Joel.”
“Did he go to Stuyvesant?”