Midtown
Just read this clip from an interview of photographer Eliot Shepard at Gothamist:
Describe that low, low moment when you thought you just might have to leave NYC for good.
Let's see, I was in midtown just this past Wednesday, I think it was.
I can definitely relate.
Midtown hung me up today. Having a Monday deadline for a profile and a bunch of readings breathing down my neck, I thought I might be able to take the edge off by doing my work in the gorgeous Rose Main Reading Room at the NYPL's Humanities and Social Sciences Library. It's open from 1 to 5 on Sundays, so in the morning I went downtown to read the paper over a coffee, then headed up to 42nd St. to go to the library.
I got there before the library opened, so I found a seat in Bryant Park, cracked open the paper, put on my iPod, and lit a cigarette. Immediately, this tall bearded white guy carrying 4 or 5 bags walked up to me. "You got another cigarette?" he asked gruffly. I pulled out one of my "earbuds" and said, "Sorry, this is the last one from the pack." (Which was true; I wasn't just saying it.)
"You're full of shit," he growled, and walked off saying something else that I couldn't make out.
"No, I'm serious," I said, and he barked back something unintelligible.
I had no reason to be upset. This guy is in an unenviable situation and obviously doesn't have very much control over himself. But it still ruffled my feathers.
Later in the afternoon, after leaving the library, I had to fight the usual throng of tourists on 42nd St. on the way to the subway. Now, I try. I do. I've been a tourist many times, gawking and getting in the way. I try to understand. But I was cranky. "These annoying voices," I thought, "these awful teenagers, these people from places I hope I never, ever have to go." One group had taken over the whole sidewalk. Two of them stood at the curb, and their friend was standing on the other side of the sidewalk, fiddling with his camera. I walked right through their picture.
Then I walked up to a newsstand to get a pack of cigarettes.
"Eight-fifty."
I looked at her incredulously, thinking, "$6.50 in my neighborhood is bad enough."
She recognized the look. "Eight," she said.
Oh, haggling, are we? "No. Seven," I said. Why I didn't say $6.50, I don't know.
"Seven seventy-five."
"Fine."
Then I get on the subway. I start reading the paper and totally tune out. The train pulls into the the next station, and...
WHAM!
Some guy throws a huge, overstuffed black trash bag onto the subway car and sprints back out to the platform. My heart skipped a beat.
Then he came back on with 3 more bags. At that point I realized that he was just carrying aluminum cans and had to make two trips before the doors closed. But the metal clanging of the first bag, combined with the sprint back to the platform, scared the crap out of me. Just total visceral fright, before I even had time to think about it. I mean, throwing a big black bag on a train and running off? I don't usually feel on edge on subways, even after 9/11, London, etc., but I guess it's there in my subconscious.
Anyway, it was just one of those days where this clamorous city grates on your nerves. Kind of still is, with the women downstairs screaming in the middle of the street at 1 in the morning (and I thought Hampden had good screamers).
Speaking of Hampden, I was thinking this afternoon how nice it would be to be back there. Nice, sweet, quiet Hampden. Then I got home and read about this bizarre murder at Falls Road and 36th Street. Just sad and awful. And very strange, in a John Waters interprets "The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll" sort of way.
Ah, well, I'll take a stroll through the park tomorrow and everything will be fine.
Describe that low, low moment when you thought you just might have to leave NYC for good.
Let's see, I was in midtown just this past Wednesday, I think it was.
I can definitely relate.
Midtown hung me up today. Having a Monday deadline for a profile and a bunch of readings breathing down my neck, I thought I might be able to take the edge off by doing my work in the gorgeous Rose Main Reading Room at the NYPL's Humanities and Social Sciences Library. It's open from 1 to 5 on Sundays, so in the morning I went downtown to read the paper over a coffee, then headed up to 42nd St. to go to the library.
I got there before the library opened, so I found a seat in Bryant Park, cracked open the paper, put on my iPod, and lit a cigarette. Immediately, this tall bearded white guy carrying 4 or 5 bags walked up to me. "You got another cigarette?" he asked gruffly. I pulled out one of my "earbuds" and said, "Sorry, this is the last one from the pack." (Which was true; I wasn't just saying it.)
"You're full of shit," he growled, and walked off saying something else that I couldn't make out.
"No, I'm serious," I said, and he barked back something unintelligible.
I had no reason to be upset. This guy is in an unenviable situation and obviously doesn't have very much control over himself. But it still ruffled my feathers.
Later in the afternoon, after leaving the library, I had to fight the usual throng of tourists on 42nd St. on the way to the subway. Now, I try. I do. I've been a tourist many times, gawking and getting in the way. I try to understand. But I was cranky. "These annoying voices," I thought, "these awful teenagers, these people from places I hope I never, ever have to go." One group had taken over the whole sidewalk. Two of them stood at the curb, and their friend was standing on the other side of the sidewalk, fiddling with his camera. I walked right through their picture.
Then I walked up to a newsstand to get a pack of cigarettes.
"Eight-fifty."
I looked at her incredulously, thinking, "$6.50 in my neighborhood is bad enough."
She recognized the look. "Eight," she said.
Oh, haggling, are we? "No. Seven," I said. Why I didn't say $6.50, I don't know.
"Seven seventy-five."
"Fine."
Then I get on the subway. I start reading the paper and totally tune out. The train pulls into the the next station, and...
WHAM!
Some guy throws a huge, overstuffed black trash bag onto the subway car and sprints back out to the platform. My heart skipped a beat.
Then he came back on with 3 more bags. At that point I realized that he was just carrying aluminum cans and had to make two trips before the doors closed. But the metal clanging of the first bag, combined with the sprint back to the platform, scared the crap out of me. Just total visceral fright, before I even had time to think about it. I mean, throwing a big black bag on a train and running off? I don't usually feel on edge on subways, even after 9/11, London, etc., but I guess it's there in my subconscious.
Anyway, it was just one of those days where this clamorous city grates on your nerves. Kind of still is, with the women downstairs screaming in the middle of the street at 1 in the morning (and I thought Hampden had good screamers).
Speaking of Hampden, I was thinking this afternoon how nice it would be to be back there. Nice, sweet, quiet Hampden. Then I got home and read about this bizarre murder at Falls Road and 36th Street. Just sad and awful. And very strange, in a John Waters interprets "The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll" sort of way.
Ah, well, I'll take a stroll through the park tomorrow and everything will be fine.
posted by disappearingink at 6:16 AM
1 Comments:
That murder was weird and sad. It happened right outside of Atomic Books. Apparently, it all started when a junkie grabbed a guy's 10-year old granddaughter at the 7-11. The junkie and the grandfather got into an argument at the 7-11 that didn't end until the two were outside of Atomic and one of them was dead. Sad.
Adding to the weirdness of it -- Hampdenfest was the very next day. "Come party in Hampden -- Home of pedophile junkies and vigilante justice!"
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