Great Works of Literature I (Fall 2016)

I was en route to the train station, where first-world Misfortune leaned mischievously against the grungy metal turnstile on the far right.

Eager to make it home, I failed to notice him slip the invaluable yellow, plastic rectangle out of my bag. The clatter of metal rails resisting the oppressive weight of train carts rolling into the station then off to the next stop without me was salt to my wounds.

At regular walking speed, I was a fair playlist’s length away from home. However, with the weight of a long day in my backpack and bones, the journey would require an album at full.

I found entertainment in the shadows stretched across the checkerboard pavement as they cycled through Wonka Taffy Puller distortions and shades of gray in response to light before escaping me. Shadows of couples walking hand in hand, of sly stray cats, of boisterous groups painting the town a pale red.

Block by block and avenue squared, I was approaching my destination. It’s redundant to complain about heat in the summer, but I did anyway. My fitted black pants, and sleeved apricot sweater clung to me like boiled pasta to a wall. Sticky.

I checked my phone at a neon orange stoplight. Hot as a cup of coffee in hand; not unbearable, but it reminds you why those cup grips exist.

I imagine my sweat believed we were racing considering how quickly a pond was forming beneath my backpack. I groaned, but it was inaudible since still brownstones had been replaced by Spanglish bodega chatter and lively cohorts similar to those depicted in Hayden’s Midsummer Night in Harlem, 1938.

Spanish music flooded over track 14 of 15 while the aromas of cigars, and Mexican food crept into my nose to perform a duet. The heat of the food truck cooked the side of my face unapologetically despite the light breeze that visited my neck, gently tousling my already frizzy curls.

I nodded at the neighbors, old and young, decorating the otherwise inornate brown blocks of concrete that formed stoops. The corner building, which housed domino games more often than a church provides mass, greeted me the loudest and invited me to lose a few rounds with the slam of ceramic tiles against a worn plastic table.

The reckless, oversized Hotwheels replicas that zipped around my neighborhood with asphyxiating puffs of gasoline trailing greeted me, too, with the obtrusive dins of acceleration. Or, maybe they were celebrating the success of my odyssey.

The enfilade of trees on my right reflected my energy, etiolated. Towering houses, like mine, had deprived them of sunlight, but their determination to sprout proud little leaves was admirable.

Across the street was Mr. Hernandez, too entranced to wave back at me. Strange, how well a statue could reminisce. Under the sliver of moonlight peeking over him you could see the soft contentment with which he enjoyed the humid night creeping around his pursed lips, and the longing for nights on a tropical island anchored in his drooping eyes.

Misfortune played one last trick, pricking me with a pencil as I fumbled for my keys. Typical. Upon entering my house, I slid out of my shoes so the ceramic tiles could drain the heat out of my soles step by step, but not before track 15 of 15 came to its end.

Something was wrong.

I couldn’t place my finger on exactly what set off the alarms in my head but something just wasn’t quite right. Was it the suffocating silence that permeated the car? Or, perhaps, was it the look on his face? His usual friendly demeanor was replaced with a grim expression that seemed to be keeping something inside him barely at bay. Maybe it had something to do with the occasional flashes of anguish and sadness that passed across his face, before disappearing just as quickly as it came. It was as if he was being stabbed by a knife that only he could see and feel.

I turned my head ever so slowly towards the window to my right. The darkness of the night outside coupled with the dim blue glow of the GPS mounted on his dashboard made the window almost reflective. The faint azure outline of his face seemed almost eerie as it was cast against the backdrop of the swiftly passing trees to our right. Every once in a while, we would pass a streetlight outside that cast just enough light to dissipate the reflection before the car was once again enveloped by the blackness of the night.

The familiar smell of the remainder of his hazelnut coffee and the muffled, soothing sound of the engine gently purring juxtaposed against this new, unfamiliar person to my right served to only intensify the strange feeling that was slowly creeping its way down my spine. In all eight years that I had known him, Kevin had always been the lighthearted one in the group. Nothing had ever dampened his spirits, as far as I had known. But this person, who was sitting to my left, he wasn’t Kevin. At least, not the one that I knew.

The more I looked at him, the more it seemed as if I was looking at an entirely new person. Had those wrinkles always been on his forehead? Just when was it that he had frowned himself those wrinkles? And what had happened to his cheeks? Did they always lay so flatly against his face or had he lost weight since the last time I saw him? Even his eyes were different. When did that naïve glint disappear only to be replaced by a look meant for someone far beyond his age?

Before I could get a chance to explore any further, the world outside erupted in an explosion of colors and lights. The waves of light from the storefronts outside poured into the car disintegrating the image I had before me as the car slowed down before pulling into a parking spot. I turned around ever so slowly expecting to find the stranger that had kept me company these past few minutes but, unsurprisingly, found a smiling face staring back at me. It was as if he had once again donned his mask, desperate to fool the world around him but unaware that he was performing for an audience that could no longer be fooled.

Something was definitely wrong.

That smell—I can’t put my finger on that smell. Walking down St. Marks Place in the East Village I simply can’t…dog poop. I’ve stepped in dog poop (at least I can put my foot on it). Through my nostrils to my lugs—delicious! A superintendent watering the tree (where do those trees come from?) in front of his building smiles creepily with his—few—teeth hidden behind the broom-like mustache above his upper lip and gives me a thumbs up. The city folk buzz around me for their leader (America) like a nest of bees rushing to make all the honey for their queen. Where are they going? I really don’t know. But I wonder if that woman noticed that her skirt is flying up as she runs to catch the subway. Oh well, she isn’t the first naked person I’ve seen on the street this morning.

Each step brings more surprise to my life. Ah, the mysterious liquid falling from an air conditioner seven flights above, how I have missed you. There is nothing quite like returning to the over glorified Empire State after being away for some time—no, there just is nothing quite like it.

Suit after smile after phone conversation passes by the sign that reads “Homeless, anything helps.” That is, until a teenage girl carrying a skateboard in her left arm with a flat hat on backward tosses a couple coins in his cup. “God bless you, young lady.” I approach the man and ask his name. “Nathaniel, my name is Nathaniel. You know, Nathaniel means gift from God in the Hebrew language”—I guess the strings hanging from my sides and the white disc on my head give it away (I’m Jewish). So the smelly person sitting on the corner in torn clothes with a sad puppy by his side begging for money may have just brought some of the light beaming down on my neck from the east where the sun has risen onto my face. And so I walk away smiling, thanking the dog poop, the naked woman, and the mysterious drop of life for leading me to this present angel.

I leaped to avoid the armies of plaid shirts and khaki pants wrapped around young aspiring businessmen as they power-walked into the spicy smelling restaurant behind me. And what did I get for my evasive efforts? Instead of the delicious smell of basil fried rice and drunken noodles, I choked on a cloud of hot cotton disguised as stuffy summer heat.

I pushed my feet and together we avoided human traffic. I took lopsided notes about the weather, and my orange notebook and I purposefully wandered under the few blissful trees of shade and salvation. The heat was a tease melting me on the sidewalk and I stepped up to the curb impatiently waiting for that little white man to glow.

When he decided it was safe, I lunged across that New York City street where hammers were hammering, and keys were jingling, and cars were humming. I thought that if my nose had been physically able to smell anything in that heat, it would probably have been the smell of garbage.

The 25th street plaza was now before me and untouchable groups of people gathered on both sides. They commanded their spaces with the ease of familiarity and comfort as they seemingly spoke to everyone around them, and I was left alone and vulnerable as a one woman crew setting off to the library. I did attempt strutting, but a busy street of busier people was no place for a catwalk.

Inside the library was a breeze that hit my knees disproportionately, and further beyond that deceptive cool was a battlefield. As legions of Baruchians waited for the elevators to hopefully take us to nice, shiny empty computers in the lab, there was an undeniable sense that this was war and the four polished metal doorways were all possibilities of victory. At the ding, there was no hesitation. I catapulted into the open elevator, and with a mild slam, I was instantly backed to the wall.

Perhaps those around me were talking quite loudly in their brains, but no mouths actually moved and it was Awkward Silence who lead us to the 6th floor. I half sprinted victoriously to a plush, empty chair that beckoned me as it invitingly faced in my direction, and finally, I made it.

Surrounded by swaying figures as the low thumping hypnotizes their senses

We make eye contact and agree to push through the sweaty forms

Before the sea of bodies drown us

We walk towards the entrance now turned into an exit

As our path gets narrower and our soles feel the distortion,

He takes the lead

For a few seconds, I’m lost

Missing the odd warmth his soaked sleeves brought me

He seems to notice my gradual halt

as his hand reaches back

We push through every color and finally reach cement

Stepping over abandoned memos, we walk in unison

The low buzz of euphoria is now behind us

But as our eyes meet, our smiles widen

Our own journey has just begun

I stop him from looking up directions,

Wanting to test whether our memories are trustworthy

Wanting to check whether we’ll remember this moment

We walk forward until we’re stopped by the high rises

Looking both ways, we decide to go right

We follow the pavement until we reach water,

Passing by cars parked on abandoned train rails,

The flashing lights of a bicycle rave,

And two machine animals asking for quarters

He wants to capture the moment,

Pulls out a camera, asking me to sit

I cautiously approach the tiger and climb on

Glancing at his lens covered face,

I try to make myself comfortable on the seat obviously meant for children

Light floods my vision,

The only evidence that a memory is being stored

Once my feet touch the ground, we continue on our way

Walking a bit more, we realize there’s some familiarity in the blue boulders we’re approaching

Eventually we reach the carousel,

The lack of light and life surrounding it reminding us of the time

We end up in the middle of a field

Where the earth welcomes us as we lay down on her hair

We crash for a while, just connecting

Shivering figures, we walk back and begin our next journey

10:47
The subway squeaks as it approaches. As it passes through, I can see that the train is close to empty. I board the AC filled cart which is a great difference from the stuffy outdoors.

11:05
After being on the train for almost 20 minutes, I can feel the old age of the subway. The announcements sound grainy and are too loud for me to hold a conversation. The shaking of waddling of the train make me feel slightly insecure. I briefly take a waft and smell a slight scent of spare change and coins. Just at this moment, I pick up the sound of a passenger popping her gum as she talks. Constantly.

11:20
After getting off the train, I take the escalator up. I decide to take the emergency exit since it is closer to the exit. As I push the door, I can feel an oily, greasy texture that makes me want to wash my hands as soon as possible.

11:22
I finally reach ground level and start trekking towards the restaurant for lunch. I take in a small breath and smell a slight scent of a mixture of pee and cigarettes. As usual, I need to weave my way through people but I am particularly sensitive after a long day of walking yesterday.

11:28
My friend and I are immediately given a table for 2 when I signal a 2 with my finger. The busy restaurant is filled with the sounds of the bell of the front door, ingredients being thrown into a pan, waiters hollering to each other, and the plastic plates hitting the surface of the marble tables.

11:43
I take a bite into a crispy yet savory dumpling but it has radishes that I absolutely hate and little particles that get stuck into my teeth.

12:46
I ask for the check and decide to pay in cash. I squeeze my fingers into the tight coin pocket of my wallet to reach the little pennies.

12:57
I arrive at the subway station to enter a platform that smell like trash (like usual) and feels like a sauna (like usual).

1:06
I heard a grumbling sound behind me, which means a train is arriving on the opposite track. I get a waft of the scent of cement. Another train on the opposite track arrives again and hear the heavy breathing of the train as it waits at the station.

1:12
The train finally arrives. I enter to a beat coming from a man’s cellphone and his whispers to it. I feel dirty, literally like someone dusted my with dirt. I cannot bear to stay away much longer so the subway’s vibrations rock my to sleep on the way home.

Inside the subway car, it is warm and stuffy, and so humid you could almost drink the air. The speckled black floor is sticky against the soles of my shoes, which peel away like duct tape every time I move my feet. Someone must have spilled coffee in here earlier in the morning, because every now and then, a dank whiff of hazelnut rises in the thick air. It mixes with another scent—danker, and sour.

The woman across from me is talking to the person on her right. She has been talking since I got on the N train at 23^rd Street, but the other person has not said a word. Her voice is high and pierces through the low music beating in my earphones. I can hear most everything she is saying, but I don’t understand it. She speaks Italian, quickly and with a natural fluidity. Even though I took Italian in school, I cannot follow, though I wish I could.

Soon the train rumbles through the tunnel that connects Manhattan to Queens, moving faster than it moves at any other part of its journey. The train makes a loud racket that drowns out all other sounds, including the woman’s passionate conversation. I read her lips as she swears to herself in English and throws up her hands at the clamor, waiting for the noise to cease so her conversation may continue.

There is a man beside me taking up much space. His legs are spread wide, and he is well-dressed. Across the subway car, in the reflection behind the Italian-speaking woman’s head, I see that he has blondish hair. He wears a light blue, buttoned shirt. His silver tie clip catches a glint of light, and I notice it for the first time. He is wearing eyeglasses, rectangular black frames that add symmetry to his face. He shifts his weight to pull something from his back pocket, and he bumps my back with his elbow as he returns to sitting. As he moves, I smell on him the culmination of a long, August day—sweat mingled with a lingering hint of cologne.

At each subway station, people are exchanged. Some depart, and new people board—young and old, tall and short, in groups or traveling on their own. I get off the train at the last stop, and my blond seatmate follows suit. I descend the stairs, and upon stepping off the curb, I step straight into a murky puddle of water from who-knows-where. The water is dirty and sinks into my shoes. As I start the walk home, I feel sweat forming on my back and neck. I want to take the bus, but waiting for it frustrates me and seems unproductive.

I reach home in twenty minutes and slide my key into the lock on the gate, which is scorching from baking in the sun all day. The dog is in the yard and jumps to greet me. His ragged nails make a trail on my skin. Together we climb the tile steps and enter the house, and I close the heavy iron door behind us.

The heat hit me like it knew I feared it and it relished my pain.

I could still feel the AC on the back of my arms. It wasn’t too late to retreat. To step back and slip out of my sneakers and my socks and my commitments.

It was a nice thought, but not as nice as dogs. With heavy foot and heavy hand, I stepped forward and shut the door, temporarily severing my connection with all that is good in this world.

Dry grass, dry dirt, dry husks of seaweed on dry gravel. The sun hovered low, gloating over its haul. Light glanced off the timid black cat who hung around my neighbor’s steps. I knelt, concrete digging into my knee, but she shied away. What was left of my life-force leaked out of my rejected palm.

For the two blocks to my client’s house, I favored the balls of my feet out of respect for the blisters visiting my heels, reminding myself every other step August was only three months shy of December. I could almost see the snow piled against the curb. Almost. A sock stiff with dried mud lay abandoned on the side of the road.

I let myself in at the gate, latch closing with a scrape and a clink. The German Shepherd stared from her post in front of the mosquito-netted doorway. She turned and swept through the net. I followed.

Our usual chasing game was short—the dog found herself cornered and surrendered, leaning into my palm. Her fur was thick and satisfying through my fingers. I slipped on the harness and tightened the cord. Connection with goodness restored, we, dog and dog’s humble chaperon, set out together to make the best of a dying summer. Her tail swept all respect for my blisters away, and her tongue snubbed the sun’s evil work. Despite the black coat draped over her back, the dog found Earth interesting and wonderful and full of squirrels, and I couldn’t help catching some of her enthusiasm.

Still. . .

On the way home, the sun quieted, the streetlights flickered on, and a cool breeze snuck in. It was getting dark earlier. Through panting and sprinkler hopping, the dog and I had come to an agreement: The best part of a dying summer was, without a doubt, that it would soon be dead.

Two doors open.
I take my first step as the last cold air of the subway car grazes the back of my neck and I face the incurable heat of an underground station on a warm summer’s day.
Turn the turnstile.
Go up the stairs.
I walk on wards.
The moving pieces of the city recalls an image of a beehive. I make my way through the swarming people, hesitating but then jerking a step forward in order to resist bumping into anyone’s cold shoulder. I make it to the first crosswalk.
Five seconds on the walk sign.
“Five seconds? I could make it.”
“Run! Run! Run!” I made it across successfully, with perhaps a honk or two pointing fingers at me.
I step on wards to Baruch College.
To my left, the capitalists’ concrete citadels. Standing outside of them are those people that are self-proclaimed bourgeoisie on Friday nights, but then again the fighting proletariat on Monday mornings. They stand outside blowing a minute of their life away with every puff of smoke.
To my right, the ones that make me feel guilt, for my consciousness forgets to pay much heed to them. I speak of the street vendors. In their claustrophobic kiosks and carts. Some of them smile, for their smiles are their billboards- those sleep-ridden eyes don’t attract much customers and I think they know that.
I meet my second crosswalk.
The ones standing on the other side of the crosswalk, they either look down to their devices to distract themselves from impatience or they look towards the direction at where I am standing. I notice them looking towards my direction. I wonder what they are thinking about at that moment. Perhaps they are new to the city and can’t afford to lose their sense of direction. Perhaps they see something interesting behind me that I am missing- “should I turn my head back?” Perhaps they are wondering the same thing I’m wondering. Perhaps they… Red light. Cars stop. We cross.
Halfway there. Sweat begins to trickle down my neck, the heat is exhausting, guilty conscience comes back: “perhaps I should be more physically active”. I am now crossing through a park, where some sit comfortably on benches under the shade while some display their physical prowess. Some jog, some bike, some run, I look at the time, it is 10 am, I wonder if these people have jobs or have a day off.
The heat is beginning to slow me down, I look at the sun and recall Heraclitus’ fragment: “the sun is new everyday”, but why do I feel the same? Same old me, same old journey, the people, the roads, everything is starting to look the same, this journey is beginning to feel endless. I become less observant here.
The end doesn’t feel like an accomplishment anymore, for I must do it again the next day, and the next day and the next- do I come off as disinterested? But then here it comes, I see the corner of it, as I walk on wards, yes it is beginning to slowly reveal the rest of itself, I see it! I see it! I see the odd curvature of the building, I see the other students holding their hope for sustainable energy in white cups in their hands.
Metal doors open.
I approach the metal doors as the last remark of the city’s heat grazes the back of my neck; I face the swinging doors, grasp the handle- the cold air of the subway car comes back- I feel relief, I deny looking at my watch for the fear of being late. I have arrived.
Turn the turnstile.
Go up the stairs.
I walk on wards.

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