A Memory of the Bowery, Part Two.
It was one of those hot summer New York City afternoons. No amount of open door AC could cut through the humidity. The concrete patch we call a park was full of equestrianed hipsters hacking a ball from their steel framed mounts
An old man welds an old grate. An old woman sweeps the sidewalk. And I don’t make eye contact. An old world being replaced by a new. You have to walk over Bloomberg’s bike paths and some colorful metal tables; an impromptu public forum convenes. Past the derelict remains of a forgotten theater, old painted signs tattoo the sides of buildings and unfinished condos towered above. The place was a dive smelling of last week’s beer.
‘Summertime and the livin’ is easy,’ can be heard from an open window above, or maybe it’s just in my head. The window perfectly frames a trash truck crashing by. Regulars are at the bar. A law firm has just finished a softball game; they had matching baby blue shirts.
A selfie was taken.