It’s August and the city sweats, poring from the street’s manholes. The sun’s rays cut swathes down the deep corridors of Manhatten. The trees burst with green foliage. Shorts are tight and skirts are high. The soft hand-cropped grass tickles the feet of picnickers and Frisbee tossers on the rolling greens of Central Park. The ice cubes of an iced coffee clang against the plastic cup, rustling, jingling our thoughts to dipping our toes in the city’s lakes. The cooling clouds swirled above, bashing into one another like go carts releasing rapid relieving rains.
Dry cover comes from the tropical Trader Joe’s, a supermarket brimful with busty buxom oranges beaming sunshine and happiness, tomatoes red ripe and chocolate bars stacked like Lego. The staff adorned in the colours of Hawaii operate like sunflowers tracking the sun as patrons paddle their hands. The background music the mix tape of my life turns our lips to beam apple wedges. With a packed paper bag, we rise up the escalator to be cast back onto Amsterdam Avenue.
Flicking lights, and bleating cabs, they stop and start, collect and deliver. A card swipe and a hailed uber. The driver pulls in, and pulls out shuttling cardboard cutouts.
The cyclists and their leather shoulder bags slung tightly across chests. They’re coming and going, they’re zipping by, cutting swathes through parks, peddling single speeds flicking the ringer as a walker steps the curb.
As the time struck 1900. We descend the stairs, the rushing sound of a tinny train heaves bellows of heated air gushing past us, sending skirts to bellow and hair to flail. We swipe our metro card, flik past the turnstiles and await our time on the platform, toes curled over the edge, anticipating.
Airpods in and the Rolling Stones roll, soft cover novels thumbed and bent, ready for the metro ride back here and back there. It’s a game of pong. The underground snakes and shuttles, burrowing its way beneath the earth. Activity happens above and activity happens below. This night, above ground and many storeys up, it was at Madison Square Gardens. We got out.
Out of the top pocket of my plaid shirt sat two tickets. Rising storeys high at the mercurial MSG, we sat in the nose bleeds for a desirous date with the effervescent Billy Joel. He and his ebony and his Ivory. From the records sitting on the platter in Johannesburg, to the live sounds in Manhatten. What a journey.
The neon lights glow, beating the dark away. The wet sidewalk casts a glare of what’s going on anyway. The side walk cafe sees emptied pints and limp fags. The pool of vomit is a story of a debauched night past. The reflection in the rear view mirror flips past like an ipod shuffle. Memories.
Dropping the dented coin into the slot, the lights bleat activity.
Pulling back on the spring loaded handle, the weighted metallic goon rolls back passively waiting to be propelled lifewards.
Creak creak. The spring is squeezed. The spring is coiled.The hand is released.
The spring unfurls, rapidly flinging the mirrored sphere into the playing field. Game on New York City.
