Last Leg of Summer II

i stood the Roof Club of the hotel where i worked. Thirty-two floors above the Upper East Side of New York City, and it was the end of summer. It was early morning, and I could see the Rivers, both of them, hovering in the air. The East River and the Hudson River rose into the city air and hung stagnant and moist on my shoulders. The pure weight of the humidity gave a sense of heavy winter to a summer morning, and the sun stretched a long arm across Central Park to tickle awake the city.

i stepped into the elevator to descend into the heat to board the train with so many others; we found retreat in the air-conditioned car of the 5 Train.

Everyone in The City wants to flock to the parks in the summer. The green grass and shade tress create an illusion of cool, but not even Sheep Meadow can protect from the humidity. One day, daffodils bloomed in the small grass patch outside the 1 Train on 138th, and by the fall of night they had withered to yellow dust. That is the way the city works during the last leg of summer.

i came down from the rooftop every morning determined to see more of the city than i could handle, and every day i ended up in the dark cave of the 42nd street AMC, watching movies all day. i wanted to walk the streets and talk to people and inhale the city before i had to leave, but i sat in front of the fan in my stupid little room and sweated. i wanted to kneel in the Village and cry; i wanted to sit in Around the Clock and drink coffee all night; i wanted to sleep on the Staten Island Ferry, but i didn’t. i worked sixteen hours a day because my work had air-conditioning, and i needed money. That is the way the city works during the last leg of summer.

But when i was out, it was glorious. There were old Puerto Rican men selling flavoured ice on the corner for a quarter a cup (no spoon).There were children performing wild, urban dances at the feet of the uncapped fire hydrants. No one ever knew who opened them, but everyone screamed out with grateful pleasure. Tourists wore fanny-packs and fanned themselves with their hats. A rat took the escalator up one story. I spent a dollar a day on a Mr. Softee cone with rainbow sprinkles, and rode the train to Coney Island on the one day there was lightning. Like everyone else, i stuffed the city into my pockets to keep for later; i spent hours watching the sun fracture itself on the waves that crashed on the piers at Battery Park.

And it was in August when i flew out of New York to move to the

desert. The man driving my shuttle handed me a tissue to wipe the sweat

off my brow. He raced through Central Park and drove towards Queens, not realizing he was driving too fast for me to retain memories. The closer he got to La Guardia the more of the Rivers i could see hanging over the City.The farther away he drove, the more glorious the skyline grew. It looked hot outside, but inside the van i couldn’t feel it; i couldn’t feel anything.

That was the way the city worked during the last leg of summer.