I rarely use taxis in New York. I prefer to walk. If it's a long distance, I jump on the subway. When I lived in lower Manhattan, I would walk all the way to Central Park without meaning to, just meandering up streets, following my nose or a trickle of breeze, watching the people watching the buildings, enjoying the falling darkness and all the lights twinkling on. My days off from driving boats were spent like this. When I did take subways, the joy was in striking up conversations. Everyone is reluctant at first. Silent. Eyes down. A quarter of every car is made of tourists hoping they don't look like tourists. Another quarter are people new to the city trying to look like they were born there. Everyone assumes everyone else is a native. Get anyone talking, and you'll find warmth like they have in the Deep South. A stranger will share their ills like it's their last five minutes of a session with a shrink. Secrets spill forth. It makes you want to miss your stop to just keep hanging, to ride with that lady all the way to Queens or wherever she's going.
My last night in New York. June 1st. I bumped into a friend on the street, a funny feeling in such a big city. Told me about a concert in Harlem. Never been to the Apollo before. I grab a ticket. We grab soul food at Sylvia's (cornbread, fried chicken, ribs, mac-n-cheese, collards, sweet tea) and settle in for some tunes. I ride back on a subway alone, but you're never alone. A man as wide as a barn -- mostly muscle -- plops down beside me, jamming up against my ribs. "Sorry," he mumbles. It's an opening. From 125th to 12th is a long ride, even on the express. I get his name, find out he used to play football. Fullback. High school and then college. Wishes he stayed in better shape.
In front of us, a man far too young to be confined to a wheelchair is confined to a wheelchair. One arm is folded tight against his chest. The locks on the chair strain each time the train squeals into a station. He's blocking the aisle and asks each new occupant if they need to get by. Keeps apologizing. Guy is in a wheelchair, and he feels sorry for us, unable to get around. Everything you need to know about this man is written on his face.
The color drains from the train as we roll south out of Harlem. Bleaching. I remember a week in the Bronx, working in a soup kitchen. The trains up there are full of entertainers. They don't work so far south where undercovers patrol and fine people for singing. Between 116th and 110th, we get an impassioned plea for help from a lady. Next up is a young boy. After a short intro, he launches into a rap. Freestyle. He's rapping about us. Rapping about the lady with the scarf, the kid with the Mets hat, has a line about opening up like a Yoga mat. Breezy, this kid. Toes are tapping. I'm thinking of the opening act at the Apollo, and this young man is better. He closes the rap as we pull into 42nd Times Square, makes sure to announce our arrival in rhyme. I'm not the only one to break out a fiver. The train takes off again, wheelchair rocking, the remnants of a stranger's boyhood brawn pressing against me, and the man confined to wheels is smiling still as we chat about our favorite lines from our new favorite song.
Corpuscles. The subway is a circulatory system, lurking below the surface. We spill out of stations and breathe life into the city. You can't wound this. It's self-healing. Always a fresh supply coming in and going out. Except for limited service beyond South Ferry on weekends and holidays. The body's gotta rest.
Earlier that day, I was a taxi fugitive. Perfect weather. I called Jonathan and said we couldn't possibly do a movie. Too pretty out. He said to meet him for brunch. 28th and Broadway. The Nomad. To get there quick, I jump in a taxi. Always feels like a waste. Not just of money, but of people-watching. People-talking. The taxi speeds off and heads west before cutting north. Full stop. Wide eyes in the rearview. I turn to see a black car dipping to a halt right on our bumper, lights flashing. Three goddamn people spill out! Cops. They surround the car. "License and registration." My heart is thumping, an autonomic response to seeing the police behind a car that I occupy. Not sure what to do. Cops pull over taxis? This is new. I roll down the window.
"Do I have to be here for this?"
The cop on my side of the car shakes her head. This feels weird. I pop the door as the cop turns and waves down a car for me. Another taxi stops in the middle of the avenue, door lined up to door. The cop grabs the door for me. I thank her, slide from one taxi to the other, give directions, and we speed off.
A mix of guilt and relief. I was in a car that got pulled over, and one of the cops effected my escape. I watch the poor cab recede out the back glass, my heart still thumping. The new driver is watching too. He never breaks 25 mph.
The alarm goes off at 4am. Been under the weather from all the hand-shaking at the book fair. If they could slow down what happens when two people talk face-to-face, if they could light it appropriately, zoom in, fill the room with a bit of fog, you'd see that humans stand there and spit in each other's mouths for hours at a time. This is business, wiping germs palm to palm and spitting in each other's mouths. And then we wake up at 4am groggy from Mucinex and allergy pills and find ourselves staggering in circles, forgetting what we're supposed to be doing. Packing to go home, that's what. Mostly packed already. Toothbrush. Get dressed. Chargers for my phone and laptop.
Some small part of me is screaming that I forgot something, but I can't figure what. I poke around, feel satisfied, lock the door and leave the key where I'm supposed to. It's only in the taxi that I remember the care with which I coiled my charger cables. And that my laptop is still sitting in the bed. Damn that laptop, sleeping in. Another beautiful day in New York. I get a glimpse from the air as we bank away out over the sea. The Verrazano and Sandy Hook. My old haunt. White blips leaving wake-tails. I am supposed to live here, was never supposed to leave. Thirteen years since this was my home. My laptop knows what's up.
