THERE are certain stories that begin in earnest only when they seem to reach an end. It turns out, I wrote one last year.

The story told of a friendship I had struck up with my New York doppelganger, a man who shared my name and whom I came to think of, with congenital self-absorption, as “the other” Alan Feuer. I had, for years, been getting Alan’s phone calls — from the Metropolitan Club, from well-mannered girls named Muffy — until one day, feeling curious and crowded, I looked up my double.

I’m glad I did, because we met and had a drink, and then, to my surprised delight — mysterious New York! — embarked on one of those unique relationships it seems only the city can provide. Alan, I discovered, was a society man, a gentlemanly figure who frequented affairs like the Petroushka Ball at the Waldorf and the Military Ball at the Plaza. He was an expert waltzer and a wearer of white ties who spoke with an accent — the Palm Beach Lock-Jaw — I had heard only in Preston Sturges films.

Beyond our name, we had nothing in common. He lived on the East Side; I lived on the West. He wore top hats; I wore baseball caps. When he asked about my family, I told him I was from Romanian Jews, most of whom fled Europe after World War II. Alan told me that he was from a family of Austrian bluebloods transplanted to New York. There had been, he said, a family fortune once; but, he added wistfully, “Mother lived too long.”