Last night my plan was to finish my workout, eat my sister's shrimp scampi, which was delicious from the few bites I had, and relax with Book 4 of Game of Thrones (the Iron Islands await.) Suddenly I get a call from my cousin Uli telling me that him and Miguel, another cousin, are going to the Squarepusher concert and need me to ride in the car with them, since the police are only allowing cars with 3 people or more onto the bridge. Begrudgingly, I decided to get some air and join them, initially thinking that I'd ride with them over the bridge and take the F back home at 63rd and Lex.
Once in the car, after a few tokes, I decided that I'd go for a walk. The Squarepusher concert was at Terminal 5, formerly Exit (that's my generation), over on 56th between 10th and 11th, so I figured I'd walk up the West Side Highway and figure it out from there. With a Phillips in my pocket and a Bud forty in my fanny pack, I set off downtown, dropping off my cuzzos at their electronic escapade. By the time I reached the piers, I was cursing myself for not bring my foldable bike or my camera Or the portable battery I use to charge my phone on the go (I was at 15 percent in the car, so Instagram would have to wait).
I walked down West Side Piers until I passed 34th and saw the darkness stretch in front of me like a curtain wall. Have you ever watched that episode when the Bundys go to the UK? It was like I was stepping into Lower Umpton, it hit me that walking down the West Side Piers seemed like a bad idea, especially considering that the only people I did see were cyclists and bums on cycles (I felt sadly inadequate by both demographics.) I decided to start making my way east, my destination was Union Sq. At 30th I crossed the West Side Highway, I chose that street because there were large floodlights focused on a fenced off parking lot. As a city boy, my first instinct is to seek luminescence, like a moth to a patio light. Instead, I realized I needed to remain in the shadows, avoiding the piercing lights of passing cars. I clutched my screwdriver as I passed canyons of Chelsea buildings, slowly settling into the drear. Chelsea, where I would normally carouse with friends on Thursday nights at art gallery openings, was deserted. I thought that 23rd might be more populated so I trekked on...
... and found the children's park, Chelsea Piers and the rest of that end of 23rd street pitch black. There wasn't a soul as I made my way east on that once buzzing thoroughfare and though I imagined New York the way it was during the blackout of '03, it was nothing like it on this third day of darkness. I passed luxury condo receptions lit by candles, yuppies with flashlights in hand or headlights wrapped around their brows and tourists strolling by, curiously people-watching, speaking in their strange tongues. At 23rd and 8th I finally saw some semblance of civilization, cops were managing traffic in neon vests, using orange batons. I also noticed buses running this far downtown, so I figured I should make a mental note of it (I wasn't looking forward to walking 42 blocks back to the Terminal 5 area.) I continued down 23rd, passing skeavy types, wary while passing underneath scaffolding, the cold, the gusts an afterthought. Is this what New York was like in the 70's and 80's?
I made my way down 5th ave, there were def some cars rolling by, so I figured it might be better if I went down Broadway, only to find it deserted. The only light emanating came from the floodlights ahead that were showering Union Sq with a clinical glare. I thought I might find some hippie types lounging about but no such luck, there were work crews taking girders off trailers, the reflector tape on their vests flashing brilliantly as cranes hovered overhead. I continued down University Place, past Bowlmor and University Diner, past Reservoir and onto 8th st, past groups of NYU kids giggling along the sidewalk. I cracked open my forty finally, guzzling it down amid the shade. Washington Sq was dead, I was half-expecting Will Smith to come out out his brownstone opposite the Arch. B & N, Pieces, Greenwich Ave was a ghost town, the bohemians had evacuated the Village. By this point I was quite accustomed to the atmosphere, my thoughts drifting off to what it might be like with company when a woman, with presumably her bf, walked by, commenting how crazy this is. It was, the city that never sleeps became the city that slept.
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