A train darted by, bearing little notice to us, wayward kids, and far more intent on it’s destination of the capital, Trenton. So me and Dominic sat and waited at the edge of the station, poking fun, occasionally glancing southward for our rolling mechanical steel horse to arrive. Those run down trains. Bumbling and rickety, real fine pieces of washed up metal that could easily kill you if you had the misfortune of falling underneath them. One rushed by on our side of the tracks, pumping furiously into the North with no second thoughts of stopping for us or the few other souls waiting about on this humid August day. The afternoon was still young, but the sun hanged lazily in the hazy blue sky. “Ah, here it comes.” I said. Our train creaked and halted, and we boarded. We sat in a generally empty car but a small black family sat in the front. They had a baby which roared nightmarish screams, downright sad. We opted to move a car back after passing Princeton Junction, reducing a few decibels of sound noted Dominic.
The train chugged pitifully, it’s Amtrak counterparts would every so often rush by with lightening speed. This lowly bucket of bolts and metal we sat on didn’t move as fast. “Trains in Europe don’t have to deal with this. They have magnetic tracks, and all sorts of advanced technology. Japan is light years ahead in making commuter trains faster.” Said Dominic. I agreed, for a country so impressed by our glitzy ipods and designer handbags, you’d think a far better mode of transport would have been developed by now. I guess not, and so our old train chugged sadly into the north. Occasionally we’d mock the towns we’d pass by, noting the poverty stricken streets and the aching buildings, aged cement. Giant brick ovens they were, cooking these poor cities in the blazing sun. I felt kind of bad, they rotted. The rich lived not too far away, in the comfort of their suburbia. The beautiful gem of the Ivy League, triumphant Princeton, sat not too far from all this decay and ruin of the north. These battered New Brunswick avenues, these cracked Linden streets, these empty Edison lanes, these tragic Newark structures.
“You get way too down sometimes. I wish this train would hurry up. We’re gonna miss the show if we don’t get there in time.” Said Dom. Me and Dom were heading into Greenwich Village to see an off off Broadway production that his professor had written. Literally gay in every sense of the word, but I always wanted to see experimental theatre like this. Real beat, real run down, real unique and odd. It’s got to be worth something. I had walked to Greenwich Village two weeks previously to explore the great arch of Washington Square Park. What a foolish venture that was. Riddled with sweat in the New York sun, I had managed to walk to the park and stood in awe of the magnificent structure and the nearby fountain which shot great bursts of mist into the air. Refreshing but a great pain ached in my legs for walking so many blocks of pure old New York cement sidewalks. I wasn’t going to do that again, so we both opted for the tried and true subway. We left our old NJ-Transit claptrap of a train and proceeded into the unhappily modernized Penn Station. I’m no expert when it comes to subways though, but it couldn’t be that hard to get downtown.
I was wrong, me and Dom foolishly walked around Penn Station numerous times, taking the same flight of stairs twice, and getting nowhere. We walked around the massive post office that takes up it’s own block, and started right back where we were. We finally managed to find an entrance into the bowels of the subway. Dark, dank, and downtrodden. The gloomy passengers of the subways aren’t the happiest people in the world. They’re intent on getting somewhere, and if not, just getting away from these pipe-laden underground labyrinths of railways, and back onto the street. Dom meticulously looked over a giant map of the subway system on the wall. “Well, looks like Washington Square is a mandatory stop, so we should be fine.” I nodded. “I hope so, the Lafayette Street theatre shouldn’t be too hard to find. I bet NYU probably owns it.” We were a little too confident in getting to our destination. Our joking and loud talking between each other drowned out any other sound aside the distant hum and rattling of the trains. That whole platform of people seemed pretty sad. Perhaps they knew of the chaos Dom and I would soon be experiencing. We boarded, we seemed happy. Plenty of time till 3:45, I wanted to show Dom NYU in all it’s glory. Those big purple banners emblazoned with the name, NYU. Hanging in the air, they claimed their scholarly grounds in the city. Dom was considering attending there after community college. I told him all about my previous walk there to the central campus but mentioned how I preferred Fordham University in the Bronx for it’s gothic architecture. We talked, we thought all was well and we’d be in Greenwich Village in mere minutes. An elderly black man across from me dozed happily, he seemed content. Smooth easy trails on the subway or so I thought. I glanced outside the subway window as it eased into the next station. “Oh damn it.” The tiled and mosaic walls of the station we just passed read “42”. No, we couldn’t have made such a dim witted error. We were in Midtown going uptown, the exact opposite of the downtown Village. Complete fools. We had taken the wrong train. We scurried off at the next stop, 50. 50th street, a horrid number. Halfway between oblivion and paradise we stood, destination and disaster. “Don’t worry, there’s plenty of time but we’re going to have to run if we’re gonna make it.” Said Dom, knowing the grim stretch of bustling Manhattan ahead. A mad dash, a mad epic dash. The big lights of Times Square, the taxis honking, the tourists crowding the streets. Two kids, scrambling as though we were evading heavy gunfire in some forsaken urban battlefield. A barrage of “Gap”, “Victoria’s Secret”, “Nike”, “Starbucks” blurred the edges of my vision. Advertisements were whirling by. We ran, we dashed past cops and food vendors, wildly intent on making it on time to see this play. Over freshly laid cement we leapt, into the throngs of passersby. 45th street, okay, a couple more blocks till we get to another subway station, there’s one near the police station. Hopping, jumping, sprinting for dear life. One of those giant tourist buses nearly ran me over, “Haha, fuck you bus,” I shouted with a stupid sense of glee and pride in my voice. Dom and I could make this sprint easily, just as long as our lungs didn’t burn out or our legs give way to fatigue. We kept our insane run up, madmen trouncing through the streets of old Manhattan till we reached it, this hidden station. “Where is it? There’s gotta be a subway entrance around here!” Dom muttered. His anger was beginning to show as we stood on 42nd street, center of the world. “There,” I coughed, out of breath. In grand shiny sparkly lights, aged and weathered, it read “Subway” Glorious, we found it, now to continue our great rush in the underground rails yet again.
City living is so hectic, I don’t know how old men in suits and ties do it everyday. I love it though, gives you a sense of being alive. It’s living like you’re near death, a pounding pain bellows in your brain. There’s no stopping now kid, you have to run. Your legs demand rest, your tongue is dry. You’d love to stop and look at the sights, those doll faced girls walking by in their big bug-eye sunglasses, their midriffs exposed, sultry grins on their faces as they giggle into their cell-phones. But no, it’s a race. The clock is the enemy, these tired down streets are the obstacle, and Dom hates to be defeated. The surrounding tourists looked at us with odd stares. These fools, where are they rushing to? For truly nothing and nowhere, but it’s all about the process of getting there. Transient devils we are.
We caught our breath as we descended the stairs onto the next platform. A train, B train, 1 train, 3 train? Just get me downtown. Along with our confusion, the heat bakes you down in those railway tombs and you feel it. Dom and I asked a guy of perhaps Arabian descent in a pink shirt which way to go. He replied that both trains on each side of the platform headed downtown. Perfect. We’d succeed somehow or die from our impromptu marathon. The train took it’s time though, and I jokingly lamented by picking up a payphone and saying ‘I’m not really thrilled with you New York.” into the receiver. Dom chuckled. A girl nearby read Harry Potter, that thick zeitgeist hardback, she glanced up every so often to see us fools panting for air. Whoosh, the train arrived and we boarded again. It hurled itself forward and I lurched idiotically, had I more weight on my skinny bones I wouldn’t be at the mercy of these rollicking rails. But we zipped past several platforms. “Great, we’ve covered several blocks in less than 3 minutes.” Exclaimed Dom. ‘14th Street’ in it’s mosaic lettering flashed by, and I felt a bit more at ease. That tranquil second of contentment shattered. The train picked up speed, there goes Canal Street. “Chinatown. We’re below NYU.” We had messed up a second time and these cursed rails of the underworld had made victims of us again. The clock was winning and we had to get off now. We arrived at the last stop, Franklin street, time to depart and find another train going uptown again.
Wandering aimlessly but in a hurried rush as usual, we arrived at another platform going north. We asked yet another gentleman for some assistance, this guy was wearing sunglasses, bald. He seemed somewhat professional and directed us on the right path. We boarded yet again, keeping our eyes glued on the windows for our next destination. A saggy eyed black fellow standing not too far from us said which stop to exit on, Houston was his preferred choice for us. We listened and jumped off on the woeful platforms of Houston Street and emerged into the harsh sun again. “Where the hell are we?” I questioned. Bewildered, lost. We were in some offbeat section of SoHo, lower Manhattan’s No Man’s Land. But if you’re a trendy boutique shopping darling, welcome to your steel laced paradise. But still far from Washington Square Park and wherever our mystery theatre was. Old brick buildings, giant billboards for liquor, and oddball New Yorkers walking about. Time to start our forsaken run again. My legs groaned, Dom kept a steady pace ahead of me, his camera bag slung over his shoulder hitting his back as he ran. Those big purple NYU banners hung in the distance, we kept our maniac marathon going. Panting, sweating, our chests swelling with the heat of a beat August afternoon. Profanity, anguish, angst, and loss took over our voices. The clock was going to beat us and we’d miss this stupid play. We had little idea where the theatre was. The great old structures of this former bohemia looked down at us. Surely, Dom asked everybody for directions. A punky Asian kid, a worn out black cop overlooking some construction area, a Latino cabbie, some old men in ties. Nobody was very helpful, and many of them kept sending us in the wrong direction. “Hey, what’s that over there.” I asked Dom. Could we have possibly found that damn theatre? The clock had nearly won. Run, don’t pant and cough, just run. Don’t let the streets get to you. My insides burned. Large, red, vertical banners hung before it, one of them read ‘Shakespeare’ in yellowing lettering. “Well obviously it’s a theatre.” I spat out. By now we were both stumbling to reach it, so out of breath. Lafayette Street Theatre stood there, the blue sky whipped clouds looming over it. We hurried inside.
A pleasant lobby greeted us but something seemed amiss. This place is far too nice to be deemed off off Broadway. A narrow opening in the wall led to the ticket booths. Dom walked up and asked that two tickets were reserved for us. The lady behind the counter looked perplexed, more so annoyed. We were at the wrong theatre.
The clock had won and Dom was more than aggravated. We were lost somewhere in SoHo, and we still had yet to find this theatre. It was past 3:45, but Dom was intent on finding it before calling this day a complete and utter defeat. We dashed across the street into another building, which also housed theatrical performances. It wasn’t really a theatre though, but more of a converted apartment building with performance spaces. Cramped, small, and beat. We took an elevator up and ended up in a hallway with flyers and programs tacked on and laid about the walls of the room. Still this wasn’t it either, and so we exited.
We trotted through the lonesome SoHo, claiming we had gotten a great workout, courtesy of us being uninformed and our own lack of being prepared. My stomach ached, I hadn’t eaten much on this sun blasted day and the hard asphalt on my blistered soles wasn’t making things any better. I noticed a grim looking chain link fence, in-between some buildings adorned with gruesome barbed wire atop it. Dom asked yet another person for information, this guy was kind of fruity and a small jittery dog fidgeted in his hands. We turned back the way we were going. “Andrew?” “Dom.”
Apparently, the building right before that grim section of fence was the theatre. A plastic ‘FringeNYC’ sign was poorly taped to it, so easy to miss considering we had walked right by it. This was it though, and Dom lamented and apologized to Andrew, the writer of this play, on why we were late. Andrew was about our height, scraggly hair, a striped polo, jean shorts, and some sandals. A bit chubby but young, he was probably only a few years older than us, we ragged nineteen year olds. Andrew was gay, but not over the top. He was a professor at our local community college, but he didn’t seem like it. Dom had done some recording work for this production and promised he’d see it out of kindness here in this Manhattan badlands theatre, but that kindness was nearly gone. Dom was hoping his name would be in the playbill, which he thought would be made by the ‘PlayBill’ company. I kind of chuckled when Andrew gave us two flimsy paper programs, I expected that, Dom unhappily didn’t. To his greater displeasure, his name wasn’t in it. “So much for using that on your résumé.” I quipped.
Andrew said we could stay for the second act, and what did we have to lose. It only cost us five dollars and so we went inside. The place looked like some aborted apartment building that was turned later into some beatnik theatre last minute. The lobby was painted in oddly light, cheery colors. To the left were Andrew’s associates, they sat at a little folding table set up with programs, tickets, and other paperwork. Two females, one who was Asian, her eyes flickered unnaturally, the other was a slightly odd looking girl who appeared just as displeased to be sitting there. In-between was a concessions area, a little Italian man who talked happily on his cell-phone kept watch over a box of animal crackers, snickers, sodas and whatnot. To the other side stood another acting group behind a folding table, advertising their own play which performed later. A beautiful Hispanic girl, who apparently was with that other acting group talked quietly on her cell phone. She giggled occasionally, I tried not to stare at her, her tanned and pretty body, her charming face. “Not in your wildest dreams.” I thought to myself.
Exact change for a bottle of water, $1.50 and Dom got a Coke for the same price. The little Italian man seemed content to be making business, even though I still thought it was grossly overpriced. But I was dehydrated and the sweat of death begged me for water, so be it. I gulped down my icy Poland Spring, and sat down. The lobby was our rest stop for awhile, and although Dom and I both needed to use a bathroom, the only one available was through the actual theatre itself and we couldn’t disturb the performance. I thumbed through the playbill. The play was entitled “To Be Loved” and was based on a Japanese Kabuki play but Andrew had customized it. The main character, a monk, was gay and his lover, a hustler kid, kills himself, but reincarnates into a girl later, causing the main character to make things right. I put the program down; I’d worry about the intricacies of reincarnated gay boys during the second act. Dom and I joked in the meantime, we observed the fresh blotches of cement on our shoes during the frantic dash we had in Times Square. “Hope that comes off.” Said Dom.
