Snowy Subway Stair Running

Originally this event was the New York City version of the luge, bobsled and skeleton competitions present in the international Winter Olympics. The event was accidentally facilitated by the Metropolitan Transit Authority, which wasn’t quick to clear snow away from subway stairs. The result? A perfectly, slippery hill. In the first several NYC Winter Olympic Games, competitors would race down the snowy stairwells wearing greased up leather, traction-free soles. The goal was to be the first competitor to arrive on the subway platform ready to board a train. But after a fractured coccyx, several dislocated shoulders (from grabbing onto a railing during a fall) and a broken neck, the Olympic Committee changed the nature of the competition. Now it more closely resembles a track and field event. Competitors must run down the stairs without slipping as quickly as possible. Each competitor must make a foot print on every step. Tracking the footprints has been made easier by the regulation that competitors wear shoes with their initials stamped into the soles.

Identify/Save the Homeless Person

In New York City, there are 37,282 total homeless individuals. Of this, 7,566 are single adults. To stay warm in the frigid weather, these adults cover themselves with tarps, jackets, blankets, newspapers, boxes and other items. This creates a mound of stuff that to passersby might appear to be garbage waiting for pick-up. Clearly, this is not always the case. In this Olympic event, courageous, competitive altruists rush through the city trying to spot homeless men and women. They receive one point for each homeless person they correctly identify from 50 feet away. Once the identification has been made, the competitor must sprint to the homeless individual. The competitor must then quickly assess whether the homeless person needs immediate medical attention. If so, the competitor calls 911 and waits for the arrival of an ambulance. If not, the competitor must bring the individual to a shelter that has vacancies. Shelters with vacancies can be identified by approved cell phone use. This process continues for a grueling 24 hours. The competitor who has saved the most homeless people wins. Scoring is tracked by Olympic judges who follow the competitor throughout the day. Judges are assigned to a competitor in pairs to avoid exhaustion.

Puddle Jumping

Puddle jumping tests agility, speed and leg strength. It is most similar to the long jump event in the international Summer Olympic Games. In this event, competitors start by standing at an intersection made impassable by a giant puddle. When the walk sign lights up, the competitors must jump over the puddle from a stand still. Points are given for distance; points are subtracted for splash. The intersection used for the event is selected by the Committee. Because there are so many of these puddles, the event has never been held at the same location twice. This year’s event will take place in Williamsburg, Brooklyn at the intersection of Lorimer and Meeker.

Subway Balancing

This is the only year-round event. It is a favorite in the city and not dependent on the weather. In this event, competitors must ride a subway train standing up without holding on to anything for as long as possible. The competitor who goes the longest without steadying themselves via pole, a person, or wall likely wins the event. In recent years, the Committee has ramped up the difficulty by requiring that participants play Tetris on their cell phones while balancing in the train. Once all competitors have completed their ride, Tetris scores are analyzed by the judges. Competitors with the top three Tetris scores, weighted for difficulty, get 3 minutes added to their scores. The record holder is a 15-year-old boy who honed his balancing skills breakdancing through subway cars for handouts.

Eating: Hot Ramen

Once a year, New Yorkers flock to Coney Island to watch Nathan’s Famous Fourth of July International Hot Dog Eating Contest. But that’s not enough to satisfy New York’s taste for eating competitions. After much demand from the public, the Olympic Committee created its own signature eating event. Each year, the food is different, but it’s always popular New York fare. This year competitive eaters must gorge themselves on bowls of hot, pork-based Ramen. Other years, competitors have had to eat cannolis, roasted nuts, cheese pizza and pretzels. A big upset took place 17 years ago when the Committee selected coffee as the food. After the event, several over-caffeinated participants created havoc. Acidic urine burnt holes in the stage. One innocent bystander was killed when a participant who was sprinting to the nearest toilet literally ran him over.

The Games

Ten winter sports events have been announced as part of the 2010 New York City Winter Olympics. The three sports categorized as endurance sports are: Bare-Legged, High-Heeled Outdoor Line Waiting (women only); Outdoor Smoking Endurance; and Winter Weather Advisory Cab Hailing. The four sports categorized as speed sports are: Narrow, Crowded Sidewalk Sprints; the Icy Sidewalk Relay; Snowy Subway Stair Running; and Identify/Save the Homeless Man. The two sports categorized as agility sports are Puddle Jumping and Subway Balancing, a year round event. The most anticipated sport each year is a category in and of itself: Eating. This year, contestants will devour large, hot bowls of Ramen noodle soup.

Bare-Legged, High-Heeled Outdoor Line Waiting (Women’s only)

New York’s February Fashion Week, officially called Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week, inspired this endurance sport in which only the toughest fashionistas can compete. The sport is meant to replicate the circumstances of waiting outside in a long line to get into a popular club in midwinter. In this event, women in high heels, short skirts and absolutely no nylons must stand outside on a blustery sidewalk at night for as long as possible. The winner is the woman who endures the longest. In 2010, the Olympic Committee has selected a location just west of the popular Meatpacking District, on the western edge of the West Side Highway. At this location, buildings do not block competitors from the wind. As the event has evolved, competition has increased. Scores are weighted for difficulty, and as a result, the heels of the shoes have been getting increasingly high. This year it is expected competitors will wear shoes with heel height a minimum of 6 inches. No woman has won the competition in lower than 4-inch heels. Women can huddle together, but not touch each other’s legs or feet. Anyone found with a heating pad in the shoe is disqualified. The world record is held by Icelandic model Katrín Evudóttir who withstood temperatures reaching real-feel 3-degrees Fahrenheit for 13 hours. No competitors have made it until sunrise when the sun would warm the extremities and potentially give the women an advantage. The most common injury associated with the event is toe amputation.

Outdoor Smoking Endurance (Women and Men)

While some urban legends point to Fashion Week as the inspiration for this event, the real impetus was the legions of smokers standing outside office buildings. In this event competitors must skillfully differentiate between the exhalation of smoke and the exhalation of steam—an ability likely gained after years of practicing the cold-weather exhale. Those who keep exhaling beyond the point of releasing the smoke from the lungs are often handicapped by affects of hyperventilation. They are often disqualified after becoming dizzy and resting their hand on a wall or the ground for support. Another risk for disqualification is hand-numbness and inability to light the next cigarette. Rules require a lighter or match to be used, and the window between cigarettes must be under 35 seconds. The winner is the smoker who can smoke the most number of cigarettes outside without being disqualified. Construction workers have long held the advantage in the men’s competition. Secretaries have long held the advantage in the women’s competition.

Winter Weather Advisory Cab Hailing

This event incorporates speed, strategy and endurance. Competitors must withstand bitter, winter weather, choose the best position at which to hail a cab, and must get into that cab before other competitors do. This last step requires not only speed, but also strategy. If the cab isn’t able to stop near enough to the hailer, the cab could be intercepted by another competitor. The Olympic Committee chooses the intersection in Manhattan. In 2010, the committee chose the busy, four-way stop at 42nd Street and Broadway. This event has been the focus of much criticism for a few reasons. First scantily clad women have an advantage in the sport. All female, gold-medal winners have won by revealing their lingerie to the cab driver. The all-time record has been held for a decade by a woman with size triple-D breasts. On the other hand, Hispanic and African American men have a disadvantage, as cab drivers have long been wary of picking them up out of safety concerns. Only skinny, Caucasian men dressed in white-collar attire have placed in this event in the men’s competition. Groups protecting the rights of all impacted demographics protest the event on an annual basis.

Narrow, Crowded Sidewalk Sprints

New York County is the most densely populated county in the country. When sidewalks become narrowed by piles of shoveled snow, pedestrian travel requires increased agility. This event is comprised of three, block-long sprints during evening rush hour. Two of the sprints are on numbered streets and extend about 200 feet. The third sprint extends across an avenue block, approximately 1000 feet in length. Competitors must zigzag, swerve around, or hop over any obstacles in the path including other pedestrians. A participant is disqualified if he or she jumps off the sidewalk to the street or if he or she bumps into another person without stopping and saying, “Excuse me. Are you ok?” Any damage done to the street or property, including knocking over of a city garbage can or knocking off a car’s side mirror, is a deduction of points. Extra points are given to competitors carrying grocery bags or other bulky, heavy items. Extra points are no longer given to competitors carrying children, as this practice was banned after little Maggie suffered whiplash in 2007.

Icy Sidewalk Relay

After a snow storm, ice on New York City sidewalks isn’t smooth like that found on an ice rink. Rather it’s often bumpy, similar to moguls found in skiing. In this competition, teams of four run across extended patches of bumpy, New York City sidewalk ice. Cleats, crampons or Yaktrax shoe soles are not permitted. Team members must wear common-man rain or snow boots. No baton is used as in traditional track and field relays. Rather team members hand-off a “stolen” purse purchased from a local thrift store and approved by the Olympic Committee. Sidewalks used for the event are closed to the general public until the race is completed, and the sidewalk is de-iced.

More Sporting Events…

Walker has several square feet of excess skin that she needs removed, but she can’t afford the surgery. At the Starbucks where we met near her old office—a now shuttered real estate firm in Midtown—she sipped on a grande drip coffee of the day.

“Two years ago at this time, I could barely finish a short 8-ouncer,” she said with a hint of nostalgia and disappointment.

Two and a half years ago, Walker underwent gastric bypass surgery. She had been morbidly obese at 347 pounds and just 5-foot, 3-inches tall. She had trouble breathing and moving quickly. It had gotten so bad she stopped traveling on the subway during rush hour because she needed enough room to sit. “People don’t look at obesity as a disability. So they wouldn’t offer me a seat, even though I was medically disabled,” she said. Walker would go to work at 6 am, leave around 3, and go to bed before prime-time shows were over at 9:30. Her general practitioner suggested the surgery.

“I had already tried every diet. The South Beach Diet, Atkins, The Cookie Diet, I tried it all and didn’t lose an ounce. I tried walking one subway stop further away in the mornings, get myself a little exercise, but it took just too long. I have battled with my weight since puberty, and it really felt like it was out of my control.”

She took out some pictures from her wallet. The edges of the photos were pulpy, the plastic sheaths ripped. It looked as though she’d been carrying them around for a very long time.

“Here I am when I was 9, skinny as a twig.”

In the picture she wore a sunshine yellow T-shirt, a pink tutu and white tights. She was standing on one foot as though ready to do a pirouette. In the lower left hand corner was a close-up, blurry pair of clapping hands.

“And here I am when was 13.” She put the photo on the table.

It looked like a wholly different little girl. In this shot, she was sitting on a piano bench smiling. But her cheeks protruded so far it made her forehead appear too short. Her breasts looked as though they had grown straight into a D cup. A roll of fat spilled out between her T-shirt and her pants.

Surgery was her last resort, but an essential move if she wanted to live a full life, her doctor said. Statistics show it’s an increasingly popular decision. The Imaginary Medical Association of New York reported that ten years ago only 1,300 gastric bypass surgeries were performed in the state. In 2009, this figure was up to 35,000.

When her doctor suggested the surgery, Walker bristled in agreement.

Noah Wailen was looking at her. Her? “Me?” she thought. “Out of everybody in the chic, dark basement bar, including skinny girls with big boobs and thousand-dollar handbags, he’s looking at me?”

Noah dipped his chin in a slight nod. The move was as subtle as a cat that only twitches an ear to react to a sound. He was coolly, coyly acknowledging her.

“Me!” she cheered in her mind. “Meeeeee! Eeeee! OMG I have to tell Vicky.”

Vicky was smiling, showing off her straight, bleached teeth to no one in particular, as she listened to the chatter at the table. She was always smiling but to those who didn’t know her well, it usually seemed sincere. Acquaintances often reacted by smiling back receptively, expectantly, as though Vicky was a ray of sunshine they wanted to get warmed by.

Audrey knew that Vicky really wasn’t that happy. They had shared many late nights drinking alone together venting about their insecurities and sharing the horror stories of their high school years. Vicky, a size 4, worried her thighs had too much giggle, that the German structure of her face made her appear manly, and that people thought she was vapid. Vicky’s deepest scar from high school came after she lost her virginity to a basketball player. After their break-up, he had Sharpied her cell-phone number “for a good time” in the boys’ locker room. Vicky was not a happy camper even though she appeared that way to most people. To Audrey, this made her utterly alluring, like someone who could get beat up and yet keep on fighting. She imagined that was what Hollywood actresses were like: human and miserable but blessed like by a fairy godmother that made their pain fade behind a royal glow of beauty and happiness. It was like Vicky’s make-up, Audrey thought. Vicky would wear thick, syrupy lip gloss all day, everyday, and Audrey had never seen her long hair get stuck in it. Vicky wore colorful eye shadow, and she never looked like a clown or like she was trying too hard.

Vicky would know what to do. Audrey yelled in a whisper at her ear. “Oh my god. You won’t believe this. Look over my shoulder to like 11 o’clock. Wait, don’t be obvious.”

“Ok, ok, I’m going slow.”

“Dude, he’s looking at me. Do you know who I’m talking about?”

“Oh my god. Noah Wailen?” Vicky gushed.

Audrey squeaked.

“How do you know?” Vicky said. Audrey felt spanked by Vicky’s doubt, but tried to ignore it.

“Cause I’ve just been sitting here, chilling out and looking around and we caught eyes. I looked away but each time

I glance back, he’s staring at me. And then, he gave me a nod. Like a slight, hot-as-hell nod.”

“Oh my god! I’m so happy for you. So cool.”

“So, what do I do?”

“This is something between you and him. You should do what’s in your heart.”

“Vicky, what does that mean? Ugh, do I go over there? Should I wait for him to come here? Should I smile at him?” C’mon, help me, she thought.

“You haven’t smiled at him?!” Vicky gasped in disapproval.

“No. Oh my god, I hope I have ruined this. I’ve just been so stunned.”

“Well smile at him, give him an unconfusable sign. Guys are dense, even Noah Wailen, I’m sure.”

“Ok, ok.”

I awoke to a few powerful jabs in my ribs that I momentarily thought were from a perturbed angel trying to shoo me off his heavenly cloud with a baton. When I turned, I realized my girlfriend Kelly was poking me sharply with her bony left elbow.

“You’re doing it again,” she groused as I came to.

“Huh? Oh. Sorry. Same as before?” I replied, my voice sounding like an unexorcised demon’s, as it tends to be at 4:00 A.M.

“Yes, exactly like before,” she said, wiping her blonde bangs from her eyes. “This is really starting to. . . well . . . it’s totally freaking me out. I don’t know if I can deal with this right now.”

I understood why she was upset, since I had woken her up with my bizarre ritual for eight nights in a row. From September 3rd to September 10th, 2001, I kept repeating the word “cataclysm” in my sleep. I said it exactly ten times each night in a stentorian voice, as if I were broadcasting an urgent announcement to the rest of the world. In a normal state, I have a low voice, one that people say makes me sound like a graying news anchor, rather than someone like me, a scrawny 30-year-old Asian guy. But when I said “cataclysm,” I descended even further into a deep bass. I’d heard myself do this as Kelly recorded me on a tape recorder the third night it happened and, in the morning, angrily played back what I was putting her through. Curious to see if I had any more to say, she did not disturb me on the first seven nights, but on the eighth night she jabbed me after the fifth “cataclysm,” unable to endure anymore.

The same dream accompanied my repetition of “cataclysm” each night. I was sitting in a cloud in the heavens looking down onto a cityscape at night. Though I was miles in the air, I had telescopic vision that enabled me to see every intricate detail on the ground, even peoples’ faces. Amidst throngs of strangers below, I spotted my grandmother who was dressed in a traditional colorful Korean robe and looked at least 30 years younger, her hair jet-black, and her face unwrinkled. She could see me in my cloud and waved at me cheerily. When she saw that she had my attention, she held out her arms to me, welcoming me into them.

This dream related to a family legend. The night I was born, my grandmother said that as she was waiting in the hospital lobby for my birth, she fell asleep. She dreamt that she was standing outside in the Korean countryside when she saw a falling star in the night sky. She stood directly in the star’s trajectory, knowing that it was not going to harm her. When the star reached her, she lifted the hem of her dress and caught it, the way a girl catches an apple falling from a tree. When she looked down into her lap to see what stars were made of, she saw a newborn baby.

In my dream, by holding out her arms to me, I knew she was inviting me to be born into her family. But I couldn’t bring myself to fall out of my cloud. I knew I would fall safely into her arms, but I believed that some unspeakable event would befall the world immediately afterward. The feeling was so horrid that I wanted to stay safely aloft in my diaphanous limbo, never to be born.

Each morning, I awoke just before I could see the exact nature of what I had feared. All day afterward, at work, at meals, at bars, I could not shake the disconsolate feeling that the world was on the verge of being struck by an evil beyond description, one that I did not have the temerity to face.

At my office computer at work that day, I spent more time using Google to interpret my dreams than actually working.

“Cataclysm.” Three definitions: 1) a violent upheaval that causes great destruction or brings about a fundamental change; 2) a violent and sudden change in the earth’s crust; 3) a devastating flood. From the French cataclysme, which was derived from the Latin cataclysmos, which was derived from the Greek kataklusmos meaning “to inundate.” Originated when “kata-” (an intensive Greek prefix) met kluzein meaning, “to wash away.”

Searching on Google using the terms “cataclysm” and “nightmares” I found about 10,000 articles, links, blogs and message boards. I must have clicked on at least two-thirds of them over the course of the next few hours. A good proportion were blogs of so-called psychics with ramblings that I found too drivelish to pay attention to even in my desperate state. I found nothing that actually helped me understand what I was going through.

“Hey Riley, man let’s roll a big, fat-ass joint,” suggests Danny.

“Yeah man, we can roll it in the park.”

The park. If I had known we were going to the park, I would have tried to look a little cooler. It’s the park they used to film the fight scene in the movie Kids, the movie. Patches of grass peak out between concrete slopes and benches. The homeless kids hang out by the arch and in the dry, broken fountain. Poets—without a high school degree or a home—stand in the center and shout angry rhymes. Men with dreads sell incense on the sides. A guy is making chalk portraits on the ground. We just barely miss stepping on one of his drawings and park ourselves against a fence. Riley slips his arms around my back. The pressure almost pushes me down face first. But I try to hold my ground. I know he just wants to be close to me.

Roddie looks like he wants to say something or maybe he’s chewing on something. Danny directs, “Roll the mother fucker.”

Riley cups his free hand into his pocket and slips Danny the bud. Danny crouches low to the ground trying to look inconspicuous. As if! He messes up three times and on the fourth, we have a loose but smoke-able jay. Then Riley lights it.

I know what we look like. We look obvious. We’re so going to get busted. For all of Riley’s self-righteous, honor, truth and dignity bullshit, he’s doesn’t see the obvious. I see thousands of possible outcomes from every single decision. He just sees everything as good or bad—and by default everything is good unless proven otherwise. The consequences of smoking pot out in the open? Good, cause he’s never gotten busted yet. But the first time is all it takes. If I get in trouble my mom will never let me see him again.

I feel like a bug is crawling under my skin. This isn’t rebellion or freedom. This is just stupid. We had to buy the weed on the street. But we don’t have to smoke it here. I try to keep my eyes peeled for cops. No blue suits. There are sirens, but there are always sirens. What if the cop is undercover, incognito? Then what do I do? How do I know who’s watching us? “Riley, this is crazy. We don’t know who’s watching us. We could so get busted.”

“Come here.” He puts his arms around me and tells me to take a deep breath as he passes me the joint. “Everything’s going to be ok,” he tells me. I never believe him until the fourth or fifth time he tells me. He’s only said it twice so far. Or maybe I thought it once and he said it once. I don’t know. Whatever. Roddie passes me the jay again and I take a hit as quickly as I can. I pass it on fast. Riley doesn’t notice it’s his turn.

“Take it!” I jab him in the shoulder.

“Relax, Harmony. Everything’s going to be ok.”

That was two. Or three.

“Everyone is chill but me.”

“So chill out Harmony. It’s not that hard to do. Take a deep breath.

“Ok. I’m ok.” I go through this almost every time we smoke pot nowadays. I am little Miss Paranoia, but I can never convince myself that it is only paranoia. What if it’s like women’s intuition and something’s really is wrong? I am stoned, and therefore I am paranoid. I try to remind myself of this. But then I think, what if I’m more than stoned? What if it was laced with angel dust or strychnine or crack or formaldehyde and this really is the end of me? What if I never get to talk coherently to my mom again? Oh my god. I’m freaking out. Breathe, I remind myself. Regardless of the danger I am in, I must breathe.

“SHIT!!!!”

“Dude, Harmony. You’re ok. I’m ok. Everything’s ok.”

“Don’t talk to me like that, Riley. There really is a problem.”

“What’s that?” Danny asks as he’s jumping around pretending to do skateboard moves without a skateboard.

“The car. We aren’t in a real spot!”

And we’re off running down the street to the car. We’re going too fast for me to concentrate on the steps. I watch my legs and they tickle because I know all of the muscle fibers are working and that tickles. Danny is yelling like some coach whether we should stop or go at intersections. Roddie passes him up and yells for Riley to give him the keys. “I’ll get there first!” he hollers. He chucks the keys to Roddie across 3rd Avenue.

Roddie misses the keys and they skim against the street and land against the curb. Danny grabs them and sprints the last block to the car. I can’t run anymore. Breathe, breathe. I can’t go any further. What if I can’t run because I’m dying? I’m almost there. Almost there. Keep it going. No one ever died from pot. There! I slam myself up against the car. I rest my head against the sun-warmed hood.

“Hey, the car is ok! Thank you, God. What if it had been towed? What if we had been stranded here? That would have been terrible.” I have to be home by 9 or else I’ll get grounded. I don’t say that last part out loud.

“Riley, slow down!” I grip the seatbelt’s shoulder strap. It locks tight. My mom told me they don’t pull dead bodies out of seatbelts. I hold on. “You don’t have to drive like a crazy person!”

“Do not critique my driving, Harmony. You should be kissing my ass for saving you from the lame-o’s on the bus. I’m doing this for you. Do you want to be late to first period? You should have been ready on time.”

“Oh come on,” I argue back. “I don’t have to act a certain way just cause you drive me to school. I don’t have to be indebted to you forever. It’s not that big of a deal. You have to go to work anyways. School’s on your way.”

“Yeah, well I look like a loser showing up there every morning. I should have something better to do. I graduated. I should be moving on.”

“Then why are you going out with a girl who’s not even an upperclassman yet? Huh? Maybe we should break-up for your image.”

“You always throw that break-up shit at me.”

“Yeah, well, slow down. It’s a red light.” He revs his engine twice before slowing down. School is about a block away. I brush my fingers through my Manic Panic Purple Haze hair and check my face in the visor mirror.

“You look beautiful, baby. Except wait.” The light turns green. But he doesn’t go. He holds up traffic at the stoplight to wipe a barely-there mascara smudge off my lower eyelid. The car behind us honks; he flips it off and squeals his tires as he flies into the school lot.

In the lot, he grabs me by the back of the neck and pulls me in for a passionate goodbye kiss. The parent behind us is dropping off a freshman. I’m watching her through the side mirror as Riley smudges my lipstick with his face. The mother gives her dorky son a peck on the cheek. I wonder if she sees us. Riley lets me go. I grab my half-empty book bag, wipe off the red smudges, and hop out.

“Hey, Harm. Do you have to be here all day?”

“I don’t know. It’s only school. It’s optional right?” I smirk.

“Well, I was gonna make a run into the city for some kind bud, but I have to meet the guy before you’ll be out of class. Can I pick you up sixth period? Roddie and Danny are gonna come with.”

“Alright, meet me at the end of the street so I don’t get busted.”

“Cool baby, see you later.” I slam the door and feel people watching me as I walk inside. I’m special. I’ve got a man.

***

Riley drives the FDR as though he owns it. He wildly plunges around cars; speeding up then slowing down inches from their bumpers. It’s as if he’s got nothing to lose. Luckily most people have the sense to get out of his way pretty quickly. But if they don’t, he’ll stick to them like freakin’ crazy glue until they give in. I roll down the window to get some air on my face. A semi thunders past and almost clips off my nose. Riley grabs me back and says in his most robotic voice, “Please keep your hands and arms inside the vehicle at all times.” I thank him for the original insight.

Danny, the one who usually makes the dumb jokes, laughs heartily in the back. He is always so loud. It’s like he woke up one day and decided that he was the funniest man alive. He probably thinks it’s a pleasure listening to him, like he’s doing us a favor. It’s like he’ll say something that he thinks is funny and wait for the laughs. I never give in. It’s so dumb. But Riley does. He laughs whenever Danny cues him. It reminds me of the line my mom used to say about the neighbor’s twins. “Two peas in a pod,” she said. Right now, Danny’s in the phase of saying the pledge of allegiance to anything that he likes, like a keg of beer. “I pledge allegiance to this keg,” etc. It bores me. I think it bores Roddie too, but he always seems bored. He’s like Danny’s alter-ego. Roddie is silent unless he has something of value to share—quality not quantity. Right now he’s gazing out the window at the East River. He’s so smart.

I rest my head on my arms and close my eyes over the open window. This morning was such a drama. No matter how fast Riley drives, I never seem to make it to class before first-period attendance. Today I got there about three seconds after Ms. Lurie put her pencil down, the one she uses to point at each person who says, “Here.” Mrs. Lurie hates me and so even though I showed up to class, she never marked me present. Then on my way out, after the bell, I tripped on some freshman’s monstrous backpack. Mrs. Lurie, of course, blamed me for not watching where I was going.

After it happened, Brian took her to Moldavi’s on Long Island for the weekend. They’d gone there before whenever something special occurred in their lives – a promotion, a birthday, a spat that needed to be resolved. When Brian’s band got a gig in Atlantic City, they’d splurged on the spa package worth every bit of the five hundred a night. So they went again to recover now.

And they needed to recover. For the past two weeks they’d hardly slept. Especially Brian. Even with pills and booze he’d scarcely closed his eyes. That past summer he’d taken a temp job in Lower Manhattan and was on a coffee break when it happened. “Life turns on a coffee break,” he said for days afterward. That day when he finally got home, Jenna kept saying, “I didn’t know where you were. I didn’t know what happened to you.” As he held her, shards of glass cut into her flesh. She’d winced in pain. She never told him about the glass.

He had gotten them one of the most expensive rooms, a bungalow really, the kind with the little deck and pathway that leads right to the shore. Because the room was so far from the main house, they purchased some supplies. Chips, a few beers, two bottles of coke. Jenna held one of them up in the palm of her hand as if she was practicing for a circus act. “Coke in bottles,” she said. “How quaint.” They settled into their room, putting the drinks into the mini-fridge. They unpacked, tucked everything away. Then they headed out to the beach. It was a cold, breezy weekend, cooler than one expects in early fall, but still they walked the shore. They walked for miles, it seemed, with the wind at their backs, just carrying them along. But then they had to turn around.

Jenna struggled, thinking she couldn’t walk back. She fought the wind, as sand pummeled her skin. At one point Brian had to drag her. We must look like refugees, he thought, coming across the barren sand. When they finally reached the inn, exhausted, gasping for breath, grit between their teeth. Jenna saw the beach chairs, the bungee boards right in front of their bungalow.

A family with two teenage boys had arrived at the room next door. They were carrying dress bags from their car into the room. “Oh, they must be going to a wedding,” Jenna said.

“I’m sure they won’t bother us.”

“They’re boys. They’re going to stay up all night,” Jenna said. “They’re going to drive me nuts.” She didn’t think she could handle any noise. She didn’t know that this family had come to recover as well. That it was a funeral, not a wedding, they were coming to attend. The father was a fireman and he’d attended twenty-eight funerals so far. Jenna would only learn this the next day as the fireman and his family were leaving.

Since I moved to New York City in the mid-1970s, I’ve dreamed that all of Manhattan—an island of such amazing history and illustrious man-made beauty—would become as beautiful close up as it looks from afar. To me, the skyline at night looks like the crown jewels of England. The Empire State Building standing up like the apex of the Imperial State Crown. The glistening lights from the lower buildings shine against the dark like the rest of the diamond-encrusted coronal. I’ll briefly digress to tell you a story. I am one of the lucky Americans. I descended directly from the Pilgrims. It’s actually not that unusual for white, Anglo-Saxons. But those of us, who have traced our lineage and are aware of our good fortune, look at the Brits with a sentimental eye. During my tour of duty in World War II, I took a respite on the motherland. But, alas, I wasn’t able to see the jewels—they had been moved to Windsor Palace for safekeeping. Years later with my wife, 12-year-old daughter and 14-year-old son, I journeyed back to the great United Kingdom and finally admired the crown jewels’ beauty. I’ll never forget, my daughter said, “Daddy, can you get me one of those for Thanksgiving?” (We trade presents on Thanksgiving instead of Christmas because that’s a bigger holiday for us—it’s our heritage after all.) I responded, “I wish I could my little princess.” Today she teaches English to immigrants (the legal kind) in the Bronx. She’s still my princess. Now you understand the gravity of what I mean when I tell you how beautiful I find the New York City skyline. It is the crown jewel of these United States of America.

But up close, the city looks like a dump. It has long looked like a dump. Through the promises of each mayor, I have kept hoping the dirt would wash off all the building windows, the drug dealers would leave the parks, the strip clubs would leave Times Square, the dark splotches of decade-old gum would be pried from the sidewalks, the graffiti would be washed away, the pushy men who forcefully clean car windshields at a stoplights and then demand payment would be jailed, the beggars would be fed (or moved south to a warmer, more appropriate location like Florida), the homeless people would be housed (or moved to Florida with the beggars), and (I add this in honor of recent news of a great descent) every working girl would be the expensive, discrete kind like that of Eliott Spitzer, not the everyday gold-digging hookers with whom Tiger Woods associated. While you and your brethren, particularly Mr. Giuliani, did remove the drug dealers from the parks, the “working girls” from Times Square, and the windshield washers from the stoplights, there is still a lot to be done. The sidewalks must be cleaned. The subways are filthy. Graffiti is still a prominent element of the landscape. Homeless people and beggars still abound. I dream of a clean and well-to-do Manhattan—doormen in the foyer of every residential building. How do I expect these changes to be financed? Sales tax. Of course that’s not feasible now. In spite of the influx of Blue-Chip retailers (for which I most heartily commend you for attracting to this city), there are still too many of the lower middle class—and even lower—living on our island who don’t spend enough to supply the city with sufficient levels of tax. But you, my good sir, are on the right track.

That Union Square once the protest grounds of laborers—what an ugly association—now has a Best Buy as well as a Barnes & Noble, Whole Foods, DSW, Forever 21, Babies “R” Us, Staples and Petco, I couldn’t thank you more. I can now buy all that I can carry. Ah-this brings me to an important suggestion. I’m no city planner or architect. But what if you made the center of the square, the part that’s still a park, into a parking lot! Then shoppers could buy even more than they could carry! As far as I’m concerned that would be a great boost to my quality of living, and imagine the sales tax you’d bring in. Quite a windfall!

I tilt my head back and relax as the cab takes me and my boyfriend down Houston Street to a dinner party at the home of old friends. I look up at the sheet metal sky. Night is just getting started. I’m so lucky, I muse. Some kid in Tokyo with East Village dreams yearns to live just once in my neighborhood. At ground level, the squiggles of graffiti on the sides of muted grey and tan buildings look like small, dark red, green and black explosions and feel beautiful. This is the rapid place and time I call home.

But as much as I love New York, New York refuses to be loved. Whenever I’m all warm, fuzzy and ready to give the city a carefree, trusting bear hug, it repels me with some crazy, only-in-New-York type of crap to deal with—like our cab, suddenly speeding up and swerving from lane to lane as though we’re being chased. And I think we are.

Jesus. I wake from my Southern back-porch moment only to see a thick, rugby-faced guy in a dark blue Subaru shaking his fist at our cab driver. Blonde hair is smeared down his forehead. He spits a New Jersey blessing out his window. Our driver speeds up. The blonde guy swerves to get behind us. He’s really close. We turn onto Allen Street. The Subaru turns following us. Our driver slams on the breaks. The Subaru slams to a stop. The maniac barely misses rear-ending us.

Now we’re stopped bumper to bumper like a blood clot in the middle of Allen Street. Other drivers are pulling around us continuing on their way. I try to catch their attention with my eyes. “Help us,” I want the other drivers to hear. “Help. We have no idea what is going on.” My boyfriend, God bless him with his honorable French genes, is genetically obligated to accept any duel. He is quietly but not calmly watching the situation play out. I feel him taking short, quick breaths.

Then our driver gets out. He leaves the door hanging open like an awkwardly unfinished thought. He’s wearing wide white pants, shirt, a long, beige vest and white skull-cap. All of it accentuates his long black beard. We watch him calmly walk up to the Subaru’s driver-side window. The blonde maniac is rabidly cursing. Our driver pauses and then plainly, simply shakes his fist. Then he turns and walks back to his cab the same way most people carry files around an office, like it’s a casual, common chore. Cars, new to the scene, honk as they drive by.

The blonde maniac gets out of his car. Our driver closes himself and us in the cab. The blonde moves stiffly, deliberately, like a hulk, and spits a loogie on the yellow trunk. The taillights glow red against his enraged face.

And then I do it. I flip him off. Me, the California girl brought up on anti-war protests and hugs. I flip off the burly, angry hulk with only a thin sheet of glass between us.

I catch eyes with the driver through the rearview mirror. He saw me do it. I sink down in my seat. I’m a little bit embarrassed, a little bit shocked at myself and more than a little bit scared of what is going to happen next. I look up at my boyfriend for camaraderie and compassion. He protectively grabs my hand.

Our driver’s fight had just turned into mine. Having lived here for some time, often in the far stretches of Brooklyn and Queens that you need a cab to reach late at night, I have a special place in my heart for cab drivers. I’ve gotten to know them, have taken them out to dinner, learned about their homes in Ghana, Turkey, Pakistan, San Francisco as they took me down the BQE. I spoke my broken French when they spoke French; I practiced the few bits of Turkish I knew. I often tipped well as my own good-luck charm and to help ensure their sanity. I imagined myself the self-appointed patron saint of cab drivers in a city that makes them go postal.

The driver doesn’t wait for the hulk’s reaction. He steps on the gas. But within a few measly feet a red light stops us. And without fail, the Subaru pulls up to our side. I notice for the first time there’s a woman in the back seat. The hulk is screaming at us again.

Our driver ignores him. But I watch him closely, incredulously and do think I notice him lightly flinching, doing the behind the scenes work that goes into ignoring someone.

Enough! This is my fight.

The remnants of the Californian in me rise up to call forth spiritual unity and neutralize potential violence. And with the unhinged vigor of a New Yorker, I stick my head out the window and yell, “Peace! Peace! Yoga! You need to do yoga! Breathe!”