love letters

An Open Letter to Mr. Arnold Warwick

An artist’s rendering of Mr. Warwick’s apartment. Photo: Kent Phillips/Disney via Getty Images

Dear Arnold,

I think I might be in love with you. When I read this article in the New York Times about the unbelievable rent-controlled apartment units above the Cherry Lane Theater in the most desirable part of the West Village, I almost couldn’t pay attention to the description of the building, with its “11-foot ceilings, exposed brick walls, piles of hardcover books, and views of chimneys and water towers […] a 1,200-square-foot monument to the Greenwich Village of our fantasies.” My eyes barely registered the criminally low amount — $331.76 — you pay a month in rent, and lingered but a second on the phrase “four bedrooms.” 

No, I barely noticed any of those things because I was so taken by your noble profile, nearly hidden within the picture of your massive, massive living room that accompanied the article. A  handsome man in repose, who has seen so much in his 80 years on this planet, and who has such an honest way with words. “I don’t plan on dying because I don’t want to give up a rent-controlled apartment,” you told the reporter (what did the reporter ask, exactly, to prompt that one?)  and I swooned. Such vigor! Such vim! I felt an instant connection, but felt certain that such a man must surely be spoken for. I tried to put it out of my mind, and kept skimming. But then I came to this phrase — “his late wife, Jane,” and suddenly, I allowed myself to hope. This magnificent creature is single!

Arnold, is there any chance you’d be free this evening for a drink? This has nothing to do whatsoever with the gorgeous amounts of light that flood through the many, many windows in your well-maintained space.

Ever yours, hopefully and faithfully,

Intel Noreen

An Open Letter to Mr. Arnold Warwick