Monday
At 8:04 I stepped out to find a damp chill freshness
I associate with aviaries. In the patriotic deli on Murray St.
union guys stood crammed. Hispanic contractors placed calls from
a car with its doors wide open. The sneakers I was wearing had
to constantly be retied. A mom looked distressed that I would
enter an intersection hunched like this. Closed Irish taverns
reinforced how I felt about today. The sidewalk was filled with
arrows, spray-painted numerals which told me nothing: 50-12.
Heading
south on Church, on the way past a bank, I studied what clerks
hung in cubicles (fewer photos than expected, more miniature
stuffed basketballs). The
person ahead spilled her groceries. A bottle bounced off the sidewalk without
breaking, making an exquisite sound. When the woman bent her butt became a familiar
icon into which I almost crashed.
I took Cedar just to cross beneath the giant
Dubuffet. The gravel texture was disappointing. Closer to it
my senses stilled. Everything suddenly smelled like
bacon.
From Pine I entered an indoor courtyard. Gray-haired
men (all wearing green sweaters) stood in a rectangle as if roped
off. Homeless people occupied
chairs along the
periphery. Some outright slept but most just nodded amidst spreads of newspapers,
notebooks and bags.
Side-doors led to Wall St., where I continued east
or south: confused by wobbly Brooklyn Heights traffic floating
beyond construction
planks. Unfamiliar with
certain tree barks I thought up identification plaques. Large wooden wheels
had been laid along a pit. I wished they didn’t have to all go underground.
Just as I rushed to the East River docks a water-taxi pulled out for Weehawken—making
everything vertiginous and sad. The Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges looked good
together. There was no birdshit-free space to rest my forearms. Water slurped
against the pylons.
Back on sidewalk I couldn’t stop loving how
a woman’s
suitcase wheels clicked every square. Strikers strode in front of several
lobbies, bearing pamphlets
but turned inwards. The Seaport Hotel was a particularly generic place I
hope to never pass again. Businesses hung flags from windows.
Barricades encircled
the Stock Exchange. Guards steered pedestrians from surrounding blocks. Traders
wearing badges drank coffee beside the guards. As I read about George Washington’s
first inauguration, at Federal Hall, somebody in a beret seemed to trip on
a puddle.
A blonde couple on Broadway passed a black man
their camera. He grimaced as they positioned themselves. I wove
away from busyness, ended
up outside
the
Federal
Reserve. Underneath, a plaque declared, lies a quarter of the world’s
gold bullion. But I couldn’t tell which building. None was marked
clearly. As I approached him a wiry adolescent inhaled like he wanted to
say Hello.
I said
it. He didn’t respond. A taxi door slammed, cars honked, drills thrust
and pinged so that one tossed cigarette butt seemed so well-timed and colossal.
On Pearl a Haitian grandma scanned a gaudy display
of business suits. On Fulton one guy’s perfectly average
haircut got me thinking about what a malignant force this (somehow
truly innocent) city exerts upon the
world (maybe all cities).
I wondered why protests take place in parks, on weekends. Later a woman
aimed a bullhorn at a fifth-floor office, accused its staff of kidnapping
her son.
You’ve known my name fifteen years, she cried. But never added
it to your computers! You’ve already let me adopt two kids!
Twice
the same driver almost hit me: assuming I’d pause so he could turn.
A young couple hoisted girls on their shoulders and started talking monkey
language. A pigeon in City Hall Park looked sick and would just bat its
eyes when you stepped
close. A lady with an enormous bosom stood staring at some prewar building.
The gas lanterns were on. I admired how a lesbian set off seemingly incompatible
shades of blue. Picketers blended in beside a bookstore chain. A cigarette
burned
from the windowsill.
|