I’m sitting on a bench in Battery Park surrounded by virtually every sketch artist in New York and thousands of photos of Lady Liberty, watching millions of tourists line up for The Circle Line trip to the Statue and I’m thinking, what is wrong with these people?
Don’t they realize they’re not actually going to leave the ship and climb the thing? I can see whatever they will see with a good pair of binoculars sitting right here. Yet they pay good money that could be used to get their hair braided by the woman two benches down for a discount or to cram down another hot pretzel.
I’m in a rotten mood because it started out cloudy and I had an excuse to stay in and watch old movies. But then the sun came out and I felt guilty about not making the most of summer, so here I am looking around as a strange woman with a tiny camera assures me she’s not taking my picture, just the flowers in front of me. And for some reason I’m offended.
An apparent entire village of Amish from Ohio descends from one boat and stands there, waiting for instructions from their leader. They are pulling up their overalls, all of them, even the women, looking like Harry Dean Stanton. A New York Amish in a black suit greets them. One of them asks where he’s from, and he says with a chuckle, “We’re all from Pennsylvania originally.” It turns out that this group was a break-off from the originals and wound up in Ohio.
I am so thrilled by this bit of history that I open my new copy of Vanity Fair, featuring the first interview with Sly Stone in, like, forever. Sly has become the mad cousin no one in the family talks about. As soon as I realize his life has become as boring as everyone else’s who survived that time, I decide to get walking.
I am disappointed that Yogi the contortionist is not here scaring the little kids with his Gumby poses. This guy was the only thing missing from Liza Minnelli’s last wedding party.
I follow the Circle Line pulling away from the dock, refraining from waving to strangers, many of whom look as bored as Sly. I walk up Broadway to the Borders and inside decide to peruse the magazine section. There is an art to perusing chain bookstores: Never linger too long in the Men’s Interest section. Only enter the Women’s Interest corner if you spot a photo of Sienna Miller. Transportation, home and garden, and computers are not relevant to my life. In the Art section, find a real edgy, avant-garde, giant magazine with a name like Brocade or Plastic Elastic with post modern in one of its article titles. Just stand there, impressing everyone as you glare artistically at a graphic design aliens alone can relate to.
I made the mistake of skimming the literary mag, Glimmer Train. I remembered why I hate this thing. Before every story they include a photo of the author when he or she was a child, some with family, some alone. I look at the dates of these shots and realize I was a full-grown adult when they were taken. I stare at these kids, some looking confused, upset – drooling embryos wearing dorky knee socks, grasping onto whatever adult is present like their tadpole lives depended on it. I look at them and absorb the fact that all of them have stories in this publication now and I don’t, and probably never will.
I throw down the mag and storm out of the store in complete despair.
I wonder if anyone has actually thrown himself off the pier in front of a Circle Line cruise ship. – Joe Del Priore
Joe Del Priore is a frequent contributor. Comments on this piece can be sent to: current@hudsonreporter.com.