New Jersey Darla helped me
tape a sheet of lined paper to my motorcycle’s gas tank. On it were instructions
on how to navigate through lower Manhattan – Holland Tunnel, right on Varick,
right on West Broadway, left on Duane Street, “and if ya get lost, just give us
a call.”
“I really think George
Washington Bridge is a better choice for him,” her husband Gregg said.
“No, Holland Tunnel is the
best.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“There’s more to see.”
“More traffic.”
“Yeah, if he goes right now,
but if he waits a bit…”
“Maybe.”
“He’ll be fine.”
Monte, their orange and
white cat, looked on clueless.
“Well then,” I said, “I
guess I’ll take the tunnel?”
I waved goodbye to New
Jersey Darla and Gregg and headed toward The Big Apple. I wasn’t really scared,
but I had this strange inkling that my 19,000-mile motorcycle ride across
America was about to end in some dark Gotham alley, me mugged and beaten. Just another
Texan sprawled on the pavement covered with leather and oil for tourists to
wonder, “Do you think he’s hurt, George?”
“Nah, this is New York.
That’s how they live.”
I didn’t have much cash on
me to begin with, but what I did have I gave to the attendant at the Holland Tunnel.
She didn’t say much, but I knew in another place and time she’d probably ask,
“Mister, you gonna ride that little thing through town? All by your lonesome?”
Yes ma’am.
“Well good luck, but I’ll
warn ya – don’t stop at the Drop Dead Pigeon Saloon and engage Boss T in a game
of Texas Hold ‘Em. He don’t like strangers just passing through his town.”
Thank ya ma’am.
And with that, I lowered my
visor and rode into the hole under the Hudson River. Now, this wasn’t your
everyday hole. There were no paneled walls or tiled floors, or polished chairs,
or pegs for coats and hats. This was a
highway hole, with silver walls and evenly-spaced lighting. The hole smelled of
cheap diesel and stagnant water. On and on it went, 90 feet below the river,
and I prayed I’d come out the other side at the very most a little bit wiser, and
at the very least, alive and well.
The light at the end of the
tunnel turned into an overcast sky which turned into New York City which turned
into Frank Sinatra singing, “If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere,”
and I looked down at New Jersey Darla’s instructions and almost missed my first
turn.
And then I saw trees.
I had imagined I’d see a lot
of things in New York City, but trees weren’t one of them. And if they had
trees, I reckoned they had to have squirrels as well. Of course city squirrels wouldn’t
be like their poor country cousins. City squirrels would lounge around all day,
eating bagels and pizza crumbs, dodging taxis and buses and not worrying a
smidge about becoming stew.
I took a right on Varick and
immediately thought, “NYC just doesn’t seem as big as it looks on TV.” It’s
possible that maybe I was in an older neighborhood, the buildings a bit stooped
over with age; geriatric buildings biding their time walking their old dogs in
the shady park, waiting for family to visit, or the undertaker.
The City, or at least the
portion I was in, was also quieter than I’d expected, like it hadn’t gotten out
of bed yet to have its first cup of coffee. I didn’t hear any horn honking or
police sirens or tires squealing or pedestrians banging their fists on cars or
gun fights during broad daylight – all the typical sounds I’d imagined would be
a part of my New York experience.
I glanced over at the
sidewalk on the corner of West Broadway and Duane Street and saw two men in
conversation.
“Seems a bit quiet out this
morning,” said Joey the dishwasher. He dropped his cigarette and crushed it
under his toe. He was talking to Harry, a fellow dishwasher.
“Too quiet,” said Harry.
“Boss T seems to be in a
mood this morning, which doesn’t bode well for someone.”
“I’m just glad it’s not me,”
said Harry. “I saw the undertaker this morning working on a new box.”
Joey lit up a cigarette.
“His Sally sure is a
looker,” said Harry. “What, she must be 30 years younger than him?”
“At least,” said Joey. “Rich
men have all the perks.”
The light turned green and I
turned left at the intersection. I doubted very seriously the two men at the
corner were named Harry and Joey, but they were smoking and talking about
something, and rich men do seem to have all the perks.
Me? I was far from rich. All
I had was a 10-year old motorcycle, a few bags stuffed with stuff, and New
Jersey Darla’s cheat sheet for getting through New York.
I stopped at the traffic
light at the intersection of Duane and Church, and checked to make sure I was
going the correct way. I noticed a city bus was on Church, waiting to cross the
street in front of me. When his light turned green, he went into the intersection,
but stopped in the middle of it – right in my lane of traffic. When my light
turned green, and he was still there blocking my way, I heard the first strains
of New York – a veritable honking riot that sounded like a Yankee cry of, “Get
your stupid ass out of this is not your goddamn driveway you fucking piece of
shit like this everyday and I’m stinking tired of your attitude that you think
you fucking own nothing around here, dickhead. Do you want to be another notch on
Boss T’s belt? Now move your ass.”
Ah. Music to my ears.
Duane took me to Broadway
where the neon lights were turned off for the moment, it being daylight and
all, and then led me toward the Canyon of Heroes.
“The Canyon is where
important people go, ” Duane whispered in my ear, “but you’ll turn off at
Chambers before you get there.”
But can’t I have a look?
Just to see?
“No. You ain’t all that
important.”
New York has a way of doing
that to you; making you feel small, irrelevant, a drifter just making his way
through town. No, these lights aren’t for you, these wares aren’t for you,
don’t even gander at our women, just keep on moving, stranger. We’ve seen the
likes of you before, and you don’t belong.
It’s possible that feeling
of unworthiness is just that – a feeling; a reflection of one’s own lack of
self esteem when confronted with greatness. And it’s also possible the reality
is more attuned with, “Yes, we don’t care a shit about you, but next time, if
you stick around for awhile, maybe we’ll put you up for the night and order
some pizza.”
But I wasn’t going to
overstay my welcome to find out. So I took a left on Chambers and immediately got
stuck behind a taxi parked in the lane. A lady was opening the back door,
giving instructions to the driver.
“I’ve had enough of this
town, Roscoe,” she said. “Boss T only thinks he owns me, but I’ll show him.”
“Hate to see you leave,
Sally,” Roscoe the cabbie said, “but I’ll take you anywhere you wanna go. So,
where to?”
“Over the bridge to
Brooklyn,” said Sally. “I’ll make my way to Port Jefferson, take the ferry to
Bridgeport, then head north. I just wanna go home.”
The taxi turned right on
Center, and I followed along.
The Brooklyn Bridge was
finished in 1883. It spans the East River and is more than 1,500 feet long. The
bridge has starred in movies such as “Independence Day,” “Godzilla,” “The
Avengers,” and “CSI: NY.” On September 11, 2001, after the attacks on the World
Trade Center, the subway service was suspended and New Yorkers used the bridge
to leave the island.
I didn’t know all this at
the time. I was just happy to have made it to the Brooklyn Bridge without
getting lost. And then, as I came into Brooklyn, I got lost.
That moment, when you know
you need to turn left on HWY 278, but the flow takes you right toward the
waterfall and you think to yourself, “I’ll just float along until I can catch
hold of a tree hanging over the rapids, then everything will be fine and dandy,
unless I die first” – that was the moment I was really trying to avoid.
But it all worked out in the
end.
I took the first exit I came
to, made a quick turnaround, headed back up the highway the correct way, and
was treated to a spectacular view of the Manhattan skyline – its buildings all
lined up along the river like good townsfolk waving goodbye to Sally, and maybe
even me, hoping one day we’d come back for a visit.
And maybe, when Boss T and
his henchmen are all gone, maybe one day we shall.
