at 19th Street

All I wanted to do was say hello and say my name and tell him how much he makes me laugh.  From my toes, I laugh.  But I have trouble approaching my heroes.  I doubled back but thought better of it.  He was talking to his wife.  They're always talking to their wives!  

In truth, this guy is the older brother I never had.  

at 43rd Street

"That's a $100,000 story."  In his tone, I couldn't tell if it was a good thing or a bad thing, a rich thing or a poor thing.  No, it was just a moneyed thing.

at 15th Street

One dollar for a shoe shine.  A man on his hands and knees in a city of sneakers.  In my scuffed Kenneth Coles and with exactly one dollar in my wallet, I kept walking. 

at Prince and Charlton Sts.

Oh, to be on top of the world and smell like midnight heliotrope!  

at 25th Street

He’s British. You can just tell. Owlish and reedy; fair hair parted to one side; striped sweater.  Think Harry Potter minus the magic hat.

He had just moved to the States. I was a “walk in” at the salon that was built to look old-timey.  Synth music burbled.  I said the name “Steven Tin Tin Duffy” for the first time in 25 years. He did a good job cutting my hair but his demeanor alternated between being intently focused and vaguely apologetic. A true limey, this one.

We made eye contact. He was talking excitedly with his friends who were also British because they looked like him but with different colors of hair and stripes. Same nest, different owlets.

at 24th Street

The cigarette was held furtively, which made me notice it immediately. A kid cupped it in his hand. He was half the size of the tallest one. Probably hadn’t grown since he was seven. As a pack, they were excited and unsteady, never knowing to stay still or keep moving. The cigarette was fake. The tip was aluminum and dabbed with red paint.

“A-K 47 will blast ya! Ack, ack, ack, ack!” The four huddled around a FDNY fire box, each with a small plastic bag of pop pops. They rubbed the sawdust from their fingertips. They threw them into the gutter. A sharp hiccup-y burst. The adults paid no attention. More staccatos. They threw them at each other and yipped. The tall one bent at the knees and pumped his arms in a static dance. Pop pops that didn’t go off were stepped on like bugs.

Starbucks was choked with afternooners and I really didn’t need coffee, so I left. When I walked back outside, the skirmish was in full swing. Yellow cabs were the enemy. Everyone took turns. When they missed, they cursed themselves. When they hit, they ran. One kid threw sidearm like he was angrily pushing a vase off a table. They tried to recalibrate their timing. Targets that turned up the avenue were booed. A handful snapped and crackled against a trunk. The cabdriver slammed on his brakes and the tires muffled a pinched squeal. A parking lot attendant across the street barked like a dog. But the kids were long gone.

at Bleecker, Downing and Minetta Sts.

The gate to the Minetta Triangle was open, so I walked inside. It is the shape and size of a pizza slice. Three hundred years ago at this spot, brook trout used to thrive. A person could reach right in and grab lunch as one might reach into an unsupervised bucket for a loose pickle. Today, the fish are etched into the path in tribute to the last free lunch this town ever offered. Oddly enough, the etched fish look like Japanese koi, a creature that swims drunkenly. For many years, like all the parks in Manhattan, Minetta Triangle used to be predominantly concrete. Now it’s overgrown with too many plants, like all the parks in Manhattan. One could easily disappear here. A shiny pooper scooper was propped against a tree. On the ground were those work gloves with the blood red hands that look like the gloves of a serial killer. Someone (a volunteer?) was on break, soon to return. This person would surely bury my ear and six of my toes under the rose bushes. A serial killer lurks in every garden.

at W. Houston and Bedford Sts.

Just traffic here.  Pure traffic.