One From the Archives 2002

A Tourist in New York
January 2002


I.
Are we different they ask? They are somber. They are quiet. Like a dog, kicked, they cower in a corner of themselves. Eyes watching. Brows twitching. They wait.

The cabs no longer honk their horns. Even now I hear a bird sing. We jumped when a box hit the ground. There is fear. But a new kind.

There is no petty larceny. No pickpockets. No muggings. No sirens. No jackhammers. No wolf-whistles. No whistles at all. Gone are the pulsing cars with blaring bass lines. People are polite. Polite! A construction worker said excuse me as I pushed by his shoulder on the corner of 6th and 19th. Excuse me. I’m sorry. And he moved over to let me pass.

I spent a significant amount of time wondering what was going to happen next.


II.
The prevailing winds send a cloud of ash and dust up the avenue. A gray, acrid haze hangs in the air. Motes of white, like dandelion fluff float and land invading our eyes, our noses, our throats. The wind blows cans and friends into the street. I point my nose high like a dog sniffing the wind for rabbits.

Is it a fire? We need a radio but use the cell to call a friend. What is it? No one knows and we think again of the unseen hole guarded by red ticket holders. We were barred entry and instead looked up at the impossible sky.

The smoke drove the joy from our day. The winds swept us uptown to more mundane dangers. Death by taxi cab. Death in the park. The unbearable burn of the cold.

We bought mugs of orange soup and sat with the dog, dreaming of aliens.

He never wants to go out I thought. That dog never wants to go outside.

III.
Tattered flags are flapping from cars and off poles in my neighborhood. I saw them too in Harlem. On Queens Boulevard. We feel like patriots and hold our breath as the plane bumps and grinds its way back home to the unreasonable beauty of California.

Halfway home my breath comes easier knowing the fuel tanks have lightened their load and we are beyond the danger of being recommissioned as a missile.

I am ready to go home. I miss my children, my husband, my dog, the boredom, the laundry. I miss the tranquility. I close my eyes and anticipate the memory of eerie stillness in the city that I love like a parent, a brother, a friend.

Times Square and no horns. Stuck in traffic, in a cab for God’s sake. For hours.

Nothing.
Patience.
Breathe.