Thoughts and Observations
Glorious Empire State of the East, you truly are heartless but your “wacky camaraderie” as Kerouac puts it makes me come back for more. More of what? I don’t know, perhaps something I’ll never find. I peek into my wallet, and snatch a quarter and a few nickels. Into the slot you go, crank, pull, and there, the Trentonian, the local newspaper. Cheap reading material for the train ride to Penn Station. Off I go, barreling again for what little purpose or reason that brings me to this former New Amsterdam. It is free transit week for students, so how can I pass up the chance to meander New York when I have a free ride? I sit at the back of the car and flip through the pages of my dinky paper, noting the sports articles where numerous compliments go to the Philadelphia Eagles with a “Best of” list. Onto the high school section, It notes my cousin, the star quarterback of Notre Dame High School’s football team. I envy his athletic ability. He’s doing well though so I wish him the best of luck with that. The train rattles unhappily into the north.
At the next stop, a slightly old Hispanic woman sits next to me, she doesn’t make much eye contact. We both sit awkwardly until she leaves two stations later. I keep thumbing through my paper, but by now, I’ve scanned it several times for every newsworthy tidbit of information. The rest are just advertisements scattered about. What’s newsworthy in Trenton you ask? Well, apparently the Latin Kings (a Hispanic gang with quite a notorious history) had set up a botched murder and now one of them is going to jail. The Jena 6 is also making news here, as black protestors who support the Jena 6 made a march on the historic “Trenton Makes” bridge. Alongside this, just more reports of random Trenton violence (such as two white guys firing at some gentlemen at 3am) and the usual mediocre news you’d find in small town Jersey.
Another woman takes the old Hispanic lady’s spot, she’s a little older. Graying hair, she apologizes to me for the cumbersome luggage she’s brought with her. I say “It’s fine.” and we ignore each other for the rest of the trip. The train stops and here we are, Penn Station. Squalid basement and home of 7,000 Hudson News shops. It’s crowded on the exit platform, too many people with baggage and whatnot are choking up the stairways up to the main concourse. I manage to find an opening and hurry along up the stairs alongside the others until I make it into NJTransit’s main hub. As I usually do, I happily trounce up the stairs to the entrance of Penn Station and behold the bustling metropolis before me. Bow before me 34th street, the lowly king of wayward kids I am. I make a turn to my left and head uptown, the choked Times Square.
Midtown is beginning to annoy me, it’s far too crowded and tourists just cluster around shops that are located at their local malls. I’m heading to the Nederlander Theatre, where RENT, the hit musical, is housed. I get somewhat confused and make a wrong turn, but I see some interesting sights. A security guard relaxes by an open doorway, the air conditioning from the adjacent hallway keeps him content. His radio chirps with chatter. Silly old guard, how happy you must be to just sit and watch the cars go by. Further down 41st street,, I find the Nederlander, and there I go. I call my friend Ann who wants to see it Sunday, and tell her I can possibly get tickets, but she’s not sure yet if she has work. I let out a sigh, crack some stupid joke that can’t even be heard over the buzz and hums of nearby traffic, say goodbye, and hang up. I go into the lobby and wait till a woman finishes buying tickets. “That sounds good, that’s good.” she says, almost reassuring herself that she’s doing a good thing. She hurries off and I have a short talk with the man running the ticketing booth about the lottery process, then I leave.
I head for the Village where my friend Carol is, she’s still in class at NYU but that gives me a nice chance to walk and explore. Yet, by now my mouth is dying of thirst, and you know I hate to give up cash for expensive bottles of water. Somehow, I managed to stumble into Union Square where all the delicious produce is set up. Apples, tomatoes, berries, bananas, peaches, plums, the works. Further from that are just smaller street vendors displaying a variety of goods. “Young man, young man.” says a short black man to me, trying to get somebody to look at whatever he’s selling. I ignore him, but sort of regret it. I walk with tired steps to NYU, but this time across Washington Mews. Washington Mews is a historic cobblestone street with old 1800’s buildings lined on it. No, it isn’t very long and I believe NYU professors reside or have offices in the majority of the buildings. They aren’t your typical federalist styled tenement buildings either, but a more primitive version of the fancy-pantsy houses you’d find in Greenwich Village.
I walk under the Washington Square Arch, the Arc De Triumph of the Square and set my sights on the fountain. However, to my horror, I see dozens of bear traps laid before me. In the direct center of each bear trap was a pack of cigarettes, taped with the words ‘Filament’. A student project I assume, or some wacky anti-smoking advertising campaign. I just hope none of those bear traps were capable of severing anyone’s foot.
It sounds like Bourbon Street down here at the Square today, jazzy sounds and New Orleans sounds are coming from a nearby band. Baa dah ba doo ba dee doo. The trombone and tuba noises are juicing up the air, but I’m just there to relax. I pick out a nice spot on the steps of the fountain and sit. I thumb through my paper, and text message a few friends. Some shirtless nutjob is squawking and howling, arms outstretched and standing on one of the fountain’s pillar heads that filters water back into the pool. I can’t tell but it appears that a camera nearby might be recording him, hence his eccentric behavior. Youtube generation it is. A lady sits down next to me, she apologizes for her cigarette smoke but I don’t mind.
Two girls start to frolic around the fountain’s main jets, which fire nearly 2 stories into the air. Big gusts of mist spray me with water, but not enough to drench me. Still, these jets would give the Atlantic herself a run for her money. The two girls keep running around, splashing about merrily, even kissing each other. The Square is happy, and I recline on the cold bronze, or whatever it is, and observed the park move. Amy calls, and we talk for a bit but she has work. We joke about the fact that I’d make a fine gay pimp. A few more girls clad in NYU purple dive into the fountain, they too get battered by the jets of constant water. Splish splash.
Carol arrives back from class, and here I am, almost snoozing on the steps of the fountain. We head to her dorm, Hayden, across the way. Some black jazz musicians are playing, Beee bebop booo. Yeah. Smooth. She goes to fetch a frisbee inside, while I wait outside and watch the grass grow, and hear the jazzy jazz of course. The big NYU banners hang over me. After that, it’s off to the Central Park. Along the way, we crack jokes about everything, such as the Cooper Union, and how they can probably build a robotic uterus to build robotic babies. The only question there is to ask, who would want such a thing, and besides, it’d be too expensive. Carol also mentions her want to pseudo-stalk Woody Allen. Neurotic it is.
Uptown on the 6 train, and crackly rattle battle tattle paddle. The subway produces such sounds. And here we are. Central Park, grassy hilltop paradise of Manhattan. We meander for a bit, and we bet on the Jackie Kennedy O’Nasssssis Reservoir before seeing it. Is it an actual water supply source or just a big fucking lake? (The answer coming up next after Americon Idol!) It turns out that it is indeed a big fucking lake. I named some of the nearby ducks, one is “King Snufflagin”, and another “King Phillip.” We take a wrong turn and end up at the Central Park Precinct, or as we deemed it, “1800’s Concubine center and Nunnery”. In reality, it is just a really big gate house. However, a long twisty road goes around it, and although I realized I have the power to control traffic (‘Press Button to Cross Street’), it was far off the main trails. Still, we found a nice grassy area with some big old boulders to relax on. Carol is a connoisseur of rocks in Central Park. We acknowledged that her purple frisbee was poorly made, she tossed it into the greenery where it still rests. Sadly, this trip was cut short, she was planning to meet with somebody and museum hop (Something I’ve always wanted to do), and so we boarded the B train downtown. 53rd street and poof, she was gone. Great, alone again in the most crowded part of America. I got off at Bryant Park, 42nd street, and then my head totally began to spin.
New York is going to get me, and my naïve love and loathing of it has made me comfortably numb of it. I don’t even know what that means but my walk back to Pennsylvania Station was aggravating and weird. All my thoughts were just spinning. I felt so empty, and cursed everything in midtown. But why? I love New York, I’m just too damn alone in it sometimes. I saw a woman sitting on the outside of Bryant Park I’ve seen before, she’s young. She wears a black leather cap, black boots. Pale blond hair. I’ve seen her at least two or three times before in the exact spot, and I regret not giving her money or saying something to her. If she is still there whenever I go back, I’m going to buy her a meal or something and talk to her too if she wants. But damn it all, the brightness, the neon, the nonsense. It’s so over-hyped and choked. I can’t breathe there anymore, culture is dead in Times Square unless I’m heralding some nifty Broadway show (Spelling Bee) or admiring some type of grand architecture there. Otherwise, it’s too far gone for me to give a hoot about it. The ghost of Allen Ginsberg must be sadly frowning over the once great centerpiece of Manhattan.
I stomped on to my Penn Station, I passed by that little security guard again. I wonder if he recognized me. To quell my thoughts, I picked up another Kerouac novel, Big Sur. I proceeded home on train, trying to erase my negative thoughts. New York is paradise, but Manhattan is the pearly white gates, for whom all we lost souls cling around, never truly gaining acceptance and entrance to it.
And for those who do, well, they’re probably in heaven, or investment bankers. Or dogs.
1 Comment
September 23, 2007 at 5:41 am
sounds a hell of alot more exciting than houston….