I’m underground on the PATH train for the first time in three months, staring absentmindedly at the floor while contemplating the vast number of sneakers in a walking city. As we pull into 14th Street station, everyone’s phones screech simultaneously as an alert comes in with the identity of yesterday’s subway shooter.
They’re still buzzing as we disembark. One guy, a seemingly tired, middle-aged man with a beard and a look of despair howls back. “Get offa my phone, NYC dot gov!”
I scoot around him and head to the subway. On the platform, a maskless old man inhales deeply from a cigarette as the Brooklyn-bound L train pulls in.
The L takes me to First Ave. I’m heading to my PO Box near my old apartment. I’ve had the same address there for more than twenty years. Picking up mail gets me out of the house, gives me a shred of anonymity to the sometimes belligerent aficionados of fandom, and bonus, gives me the opportunity to pick up coffee beans at Porto Rico Imports.
Today is a perfect spring day, and emerging from the claustrophobic tunnels to the wide world of Manhattan feels achingly full of hope and nostalgia. It’s hard to think of Ukraine, of subway shooters, of the judiciary and the fear of fascism. Of aging. Of stress and decisions. Of the self-righteous ignorance of the clueless knights of social media, and the various applications of misplaced valor. Of having to start work at noon and needing to hurry home.
I’d stop to inhale and admire the morning, but the pedestrians around me are jaywalking en masse. If I want to pretend to still belong here, NY4life, I’d better keep up. Once a jaywalker on First Avenue, always a jaywalker on First Avenue.
