Flood lights are turning the sky a milky hue, helicopters are circling overhead and shining spotlights down on the large gathering of people who have been corralled into this smallish riverside patch of grass (that is often generously referred to as a "park"). Police officers litter the crowd, stand in dark corners, are perched from view towers, and are checking bags at a make-shift gate. "This is a police state...They're gonna unload on the crowd, man!"
There are people everywhere. We wander aimlessly, trying to lay claim to a patch of grass not occupied or surrounded by screaming children with tennis balls or water guns. Like bugs to a light bulb, our natural instincts pull us closer to the water, closer to the Macy's boat which will be blasting massive explosives into the air. We fight the pull of nature and walk toward the exit, picking a spot that allows us an easy escape.
"I dare you to open that pizza box!" The group of friends in front of us has stood up from their blanket to see if the show is starting --how this would give them any information beats me-- leaving a box of Fornino's tasty pizza vulnerable to our antics. But is the box empty? The question plagues us. We go back and forth over how funny it would be to ask them for a slice or whether or not we should just open the box (not that we'd actually eat it, of course). Others around us begin to stand up. Again, what they think they will see puzzles us all. A portly woman stands and balances precariously on a cement balance beam which separates the concrete picnic table area from the grass patch where we and the pizza box sit. We look at each other with eyebrows raised, "That box is going to get stomped when the show starts". It happened sooner than that. It happened sooner than the "healthy" American lost her balance. The woman's obese daughter in Nike high tops and cutoff shorts stomped onto the balance beam with knees high, she stomped onto the grass, and then raised her foot high and stomped on the pizza box.
"Oh!" Did we shout it, or did our eyebrows mime it? Either way, it happened. The group of friends and sad owners of the leftover pizza (seems there was some left) turned around aghast. You see, there are invisible and unsaid divides between different cultures/income levels/age groups in New York. The girl looked at the group and smiled as she stomped again. The mother laughed. The friends moved the pizza box.
We couldn't handle it. We had to get out. We fought against the stream of umbrellas, coolers, and glow sticks to the exit shining a few meters ahead. Dogs were barking impending doom. We walked and walked until there were no more cops. We found a small alleyway where everyone could pee behind cars while the "bombs burst in air". We couldn't hear the car alarms going off anymore, only the loud blast boom and rumble in our hearts.
There are people everywhere. We wander aimlessly, trying to lay claim to a patch of grass not occupied or surrounded by screaming children with tennis balls or water guns. Like bugs to a light bulb, our natural instincts pull us closer to the water, closer to the Macy's boat which will be blasting massive explosives into the air. We fight the pull of nature and walk toward the exit, picking a spot that allows us an easy escape.
"I dare you to open that pizza box!" The group of friends in front of us has stood up from their blanket to see if the show is starting --how this would give them any information beats me-- leaving a box of Fornino's tasty pizza vulnerable to our antics. But is the box empty? The question plagues us. We go back and forth over how funny it would be to ask them for a slice or whether or not we should just open the box (not that we'd actually eat it, of course). Others around us begin to stand up. Again, what they think they will see puzzles us all. A portly woman stands and balances precariously on a cement balance beam which separates the concrete picnic table area from the grass patch where we and the pizza box sit. We look at each other with eyebrows raised, "That box is going to get stomped when the show starts". It happened sooner than that. It happened sooner than the "healthy" American lost her balance. The woman's obese daughter in Nike high tops and cutoff shorts stomped onto the balance beam with knees high, she stomped onto the grass, and then raised her foot high and stomped on the pizza box.
"Oh!" Did we shout it, or did our eyebrows mime it? Either way, it happened. The group of friends and sad owners of the leftover pizza (seems there was some left) turned around aghast. You see, there are invisible and unsaid divides between different cultures/income levels/age groups in New York. The girl looked at the group and smiled as she stomped again. The mother laughed. The friends moved the pizza box.
We couldn't handle it. We had to get out. We fought against the stream of umbrellas, coolers, and glow sticks to the exit shining a few meters ahead. Dogs were barking impending doom. We walked and walked until there were no more cops. We found a small alleyway where everyone could pee behind cars while the "bombs burst in air". We couldn't hear the car alarms going off anymore, only the loud blast boom and rumble in our hearts.
No comments:
Post a Comment