Live from New York “What’s up son?”
I hear it constantly on the streets. Nextel doodlie do’s chime in with the click clacks of heels on city sidewalks.
Everybody’s random in New York. On any block, you’re bound to be serenaded by a would-be Latin lover or boom-blasted with live, lyrical soundbytes catching your ear as you pass by.
“Menage-a-trois. Sex in expensive cars …” The words bound at me from a face that slyly nods, “That’s for you gurl.”
I walk faster.
Steam rises from grates, toasting “Good morning” to jostling costly cups of coffee, and it’s hard to tell the ciggy smokers from the caterpillars in Wonderland as everyone’s breath leaves traces in the air. And you look up in the sky and there’s a haze that sits atop the needle-like post of the Empire State Building. It looks like a breath catcher – one big hazy white net …
Horns honk hello and hurry the hell up as everywhere there are packs and packs of people clothed in dark colors striding importantly, with purpose.
You see stuff that you imagined and then the next second you see something that you just can’t even believe. You see homeless people with those fingerless gloves “relocating” pushing and pulling their carts and you see people shove them out of the way as if they weren’t there.
On the subways in the mornings you are likely to see these things:
Ipod pieces streaming from ears that dare to contain blaring beats, legwarmers in crazy 80s colors on a girl who has on so much lip gloss that you swear her lips must just produce the stuff at will. You see a richly dressed man watching for his 5th avenue stop in cognac colored leather shoes – crisp. He sits next to the man who’s making his way to Brooklyn – he’s sound asleep with his head resting on the windows that feature key-etched graffiti.
It smells of feet and stale bread and the occasional shocking burst of some man’s cologne. I wonder sometimes if they think that by wearing so much it will help filter the air with a good smell.
Another thing I’ve noticed. This is at work. I have yet to see a man consume a regular soda – these boys are drinking diet. For the first time today I caught myself murmuring, sissy boys. I ain’t never met a man who drinks diet soda on a regular (as in devoted) basis. It weirds me out to be honest. Diet sodas and splenda in the java. I wonder if they have those complicated orders at Starbucks. You know, the French vanilla triple lattes with skim hold the whip and the shots of vanilla, please thank you.
I am also thinking that one of these guys can tell me where to find a good manicurist. Not that I mind the more, shall we say, “metro” tendencies. I think they’re charming in that getting-to-know-you sort of way. And nice hands can do so much …
As can nice facial hair, this is also on fine display. Evenly lined goatees, measured stubble, crisp mustaches and baby butt clean jawlines. There is so much for the eyes to see and my ears are constantly overwhelmed with all the noises – the many languages firing away at my brain. You hear Russian rapid and rough, the gregarious gruff that is German, and the oh-so-fashionably flippant French; always there are swift swatches of Spanish spoken in voices rife with emotion and pitch; Chinese chops and sticks in your ears with lingering –ows and –angs; and just when you think you’re about to hear a “What’s up son,” something African-sounding is birthed from a hollowed palate that sounds very stately and rounded – as if their entire mouth cupped itself around each word.
I am inundated with things that touch each and everyone of my senses. I do not feel swept away or caught up, but alive. Heart beating in time with the millions of feet clip clopping to the ebb and flow of voices and horns and wind …