The shortest New Yorker article ever written: On a warm summer night in 1987, Lester Smith boarded a Metro North train bound for Grand Central Station. Smith and I recently met over noodles at a Vietnamese place tucked away in the East Village. Not particularly tall but somehow still lanky, Smith looks much younger than he is: he has a broad smile, a full head of hair, and the kind of eyebrows that make you think he’s always just about to ask a question. I couldn’t help but wonder if any of it was going to happen: “Impossible, I know,” he said, “but that’s my fantasy.”


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