I was out of the building by 5:10 my first day, walking down Park Avenue, a half dozen wide avenues away from my YMCA. The faceless yuppies that sprinted past me that morning now raced back to Grand Central Station. But I took my time, meandering through Midtown's maze, then over and down to the Westside. Most blocks, already devoid of sunlight, were quiet, packing it up for the day.
City icons appeared unannounced. Rockefeller Plaza's concrete-ringed valley brimmed with cafe tables instead of ice skaters. Beyond that, Radio City Music Hall's marquee lit up 6th Avenue announcing that Siegfried & Roy would soon reside there for three weeks. No thanks.
"Yo! Yo! Yo!" I looked up just in time to jump away from a rolling food cart that had escaped its two handlers shouting at each other in...Greek? Russian? Then just as quickly, they rolled on.
I stopped to cross 6th at the "Walk" sign. But instead of walking, I was lifted across by the energy of the people who had bucked like ponies, waiting for the light to change. That intensity increased as I entered the brighter, even louder basin within Times Square.
The "Crossroads of the World" seemed more open there with fewer towers hogging the sunlight. But what's that law of physics? "Nature abhors a vacuum?" The sidewalks teemed with frenetic people, scattering like buckshot out of a hunter's rifle. On the flip side, some guys just leaned against doorways, surveying it all behind sunglasses. Others shuffled around, quietly asking, "Smoke? Smoke? Sex? Sex?" Or was it "cents?" Sense?
Homeless people picked through garbage cans. But nobody looked at them for fear of being asked for money. No one likes to feel guilty. Hell, I was just 14 days from joining them if I didn't find a real job.
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