Outside the window, I hear a jackhammer. And children running down the sidewalk to the park, yelling at each other, laughing. There’s undisclosed birds in the trees.
The super of my building just came to my door and tried to unlock it, but I have the safety chain on and I yelled “What the Fuck!”. He’s hunting the building for a leak that might be coming from the roof after that heavy rain.
New York City is a guy talking to another guy down on the stoop, I can hear them talking about last night’s football game.
It’s the leaves shaking and brushing against the fire escape. It’s the sound of a spandex bike person zipping down 173rd street, the click click click of her wheels. Things are happening. People are living. It’s September 11th 2015.
When the planes hit the towers, I didn’t live here yet. I was working in NJ on this very steep hill by a river. I was pushing a wheelbarrow from the bottom of the hill to the top of the hill with stone and cement in it. My boss used to drop us off at 7am and come back around 4pm. That day, he pulled back in the driveway around 9am and yelled, “Get in the truck! We’re done here!'”
My coworker and I started celebrating. I pushed my wheelbarrow over and raised my hands over my head like I’d just won a world championship.
We climbed in the truck.
“Why we leaving early?”
He turned on the radio. Damn, isn’t it horrible when you hear about the end of the world on the radio?
New York City is bodegas open and making you a sandwich. Or bodegas closed down and no sandwich. Different days, different things.
But today, I see an air conditioner window box leaking condensation onto a dip of the sidewalk where there’s already a puddle. And I see a girl walking a white and black spotted pibull and the dog stops walking and hangs his head into the puddle and drinks. Smiling when he is done. Girl and dog walking on.