Back in New York City. (a work in progress)


Back in New York City.
I've always thought of New York as old leather. It's comfortable and molds right around you no matter how long since you've last worn it.
I've always felt the ebb and flow of energy in New York. Even as a child when my parents would take me into Manhattan I could feel it. I think you can only sense the change when you cross the bridge if you don't live there. I lived in The City (briefly) and I think after a while it starts to dull your sensitivity to it. It's like the
"Ladies and Gentlemen, we will be arriving at Penn Station in just a few minutes. There's some traffic ahead of us and as soon as the platform is clear we'll be ready to debark."
I stepped off the train and onto the platform. Joining the rush for the narrow escalator that would take me out of the oppressively hot and humid bowels of Penn Station.
Ascending into the cool, almost cold, air that filled the station the din of voices, footsteps and incomprehensible PA announcements rose to a crescendo as I reached the top step.
My senses heighten with the rising noise and I enter "New York Mode" as my wife describes it. I can feel it's affect on my almost instantly. I revert atavistically back to a New Yorker. I find the nearest exit to the street level, 8th Ave & 31st. At the top of the stairs I pass through the first of many clusters of smokers. Those social pariahs banished to the exterior of virtually every building in the city. Through a cloud of blue-gray smoke I get my bearings. Post office on the left and head north on 8th.
Walking NYC style means moving at roughly 25 mph and weaving like you're avoiding incoming mortar fire.
Passing Port Authority, I have my first encounter with a junkie. She’s skinny and sickly looking. Missing teeth and prominent cheekbones. Eyes that are yellowing and skin that is pockmarked and ashy. She pushes past me with raised elbows muttering in rage. I give her a shove and she shoots me a furious stare. I stand my ground and stare her down and she moves past me. She wheels towards a rising cackle coming from my 12 O’clock. She sputters in unintelligible addict-ese. The cackle grows louder in response. As I draw closer I see another junkie. A male this time. He’s wearing raggedy clothes, a black foam trucker hat and has the same hygiene impairments as his female counterpart. She storms through the crowd again and unleashes another tirade of Addict-ese which only brings the cackle to new heights.
Tearing my glance from the dueling dopefiends I see a young woman. No, young girl. She can’t be more than 14. She is tall and lithe. She has the face of a porcelain doll the paragon of innocence. Her outfit belies her visage. She is wearing a short skirt, plunging neck T-shirt and platform shoes that accentuate her long shapely legs. She’s pulling a wheeled suitcase and has a knapsack as well. In one hand is a NYC tourist map and the other holds a bus ticket. I look around her and quickly surmise she’s by herself. I can’t help but think to myself, "This city is going to eat that girl alive". The upward stare at the skyscrapers only makes things worse. It’s like throwing chum in the water before going for a swim. Looking past her I see half a dozen seedy guys eyeing her like jackals. Port Authority is one of those places where the lowest of the low hang out and wait for just such young girls to arrive in New York. They are often runaways or wannabe actresses and models. Men like them befriend these girls under the auspice of finding them work or helping to get them settled. In short order many of them end up in porn or prostitution. My cynical side sees this grim end for her. I don’t know her or anything about her but this hard reality that is New York forces my brain to consider the worst. I move on, praying I’m wrong.
Across 42nd street and against the light. One thing that I never changed when I left The City. I do not wait for traffic lights. I will wait for traffic, usually, but not lights. I think the pace of the city combined with my own impatience makes it physically painful for me to wait for traffic lights.
North on 8th Ave and into the shadows created by skyscrapers on either side of the street. It’s unseasonably cold and the wind is gusting through the trenches. Each corner brings another blast of cool air. I was cold on the air-conditioned train but this is even colder. In the shade it’s probably in the 60’s. In August. In New York City. Worse than the gusting "fresh" air. As much air in The City is actually fresh. Is the cold emanating from the porn shops that still infest 8th north of the 42nd. They are indistinguishable from one another as if they are all prefabricated somewhere and sent as finished units for installation. The ubiquitous neon signs with dozens of "XXX" signs adorning the doorways. There are posters with scantily clad women invariably open mouthed and giving their best lustful come hither look. There is a peculiar and altogether foul smell that is found only in porn shops. I steel myself for it every time I approach one but it still makes my stomach lurch every time. It’s a combination of Freon and God knows what. I try not to think of what it might be and am thankful that I don’t know. I don’t ever want to know.

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