It was a rainy afternoon in December. That kind of chilling, damp air that penetrates to the bone. Chloe had just gotten off the phone with her friend Georgette, who had become slightly depressed as of late. She didn't know what she wanted, in general, and was sad about most things. Chloe had tried to console her.
Pretend you are a character in a movie and look at everything from the outside, and suddenly everything will come into perspective and everything will seem small.
Chloe's boots went clip-clop over the cobblestones on Crosby Street. She preferred to walk over these instead of the narrow sidewalk, because it felt like it must have felt to walk there in the 60s, when Crosby Street was a better version of itself. And in the emptiness, it felt like her own.
The cobblestones, though, were also a melancholy reminder of how little streets there were left paved with this vestige of old New York. Just last year the city had paved over all of Grand Street, leaving a smooth and slick surface, lined with stores selling thousand dollar t-shirts. Save for Wooster, Greene, Mercer, and that two block stretch of Clinton in no-man's land below Delancey, Crosby Street was one of the last holdouts.
The day Crosby is paved over is the day I leave New York.
The echoes of her boots filled the silence, and it started to pour rain just as she pulled open the big door at Housing Works Bookstore. She was craving a useful book. Perhaps a Historical Account of Crosby Street, or A Detailed Description of How to Navigate the Canal Street Subway Station. Finding neither of her desired books (what else could be expected?), she ambled over to the 50 cent cart.
While contemplating the usefulness of The Science of Relationships, she felt a tap on her shoulder. It was her friend Griselda, who had worked there for as long as Chloe had been getting her books there, which wasn't long. "I have a book for you!"
(Griselda had been keeping an eye out for certain books as they arrived, as a favor to Chloe, who had the idea that she wanted to collect all the books with the word "ocean" in the title. It was an ongoing project, but she had
collected quite a range, thanks in large part to Griselda's efforts.)
"It's called 'Near the Ocean' by Robert Lowell."
(The cover was aqua, with corners worn white with wear. The title, in a sans serif italic, sat in an off-white square, with aqua wave lines alternating each word, which were stacked one on top of another, flush left. It was very 60s.)
"Thank you, this is perfect."
Forgetting her mission to find a useful book, Chloe took off her coat and sat at a table with the volume... But first, a glass of wine, she thought. She stood up and went to the bar.
(Hello's. The order. Merlot please. Digging through her wallet. Thank you.)
Taking her seat again, she opened the cover. 1967. She couldn't help but wonder whether she would have preferred to have lived then. Maybe her happiness would have been greater. She started thinking about all that she wanted but couldn't have, and all that she had but didn't want. Drifting in thought, she sighted a man in the corner with a solitary stack of books like a skyscraper. Beyond him, she drifted up the stairs and up to the platform that stretched across the second level of the store. Gazing over the railing, she watched herself from above. And suddenly everything felt light and free, and all the bookstore and its patrons were just characters in some movie sitting on a dusty shelf.
Pretend you are a character in a movie and look at everything from the outside, and suddenly everything will come into perspective and everything will seem small.
Chloe's boots went clip-clop over the cobblestones on Crosby Street. She preferred to walk over these instead of the narrow sidewalk, because it felt like it must have felt to walk there in the 60s, when Crosby Street was a better version of itself. And in the emptiness, it felt like her own.
The cobblestones, though, were also a melancholy reminder of how little streets there were left paved with this vestige of old New York. Just last year the city had paved over all of Grand Street, leaving a smooth and slick surface, lined with stores selling thousand dollar t-shirts. Save for Wooster, Greene, Mercer, and that two block stretch of Clinton in no-man's land below Delancey, Crosby Street was one of the last holdouts.
The day Crosby is paved over is the day I leave New York.
The echoes of her boots filled the silence, and it started to pour rain just as she pulled open the big door at Housing Works Bookstore. She was craving a useful book. Perhaps a Historical Account of Crosby Street, or A Detailed Description of How to Navigate the Canal Street Subway Station. Finding neither of her desired books (what else could be expected?), she ambled over to the 50 cent cart.
While contemplating the usefulness of The Science of Relationships, she felt a tap on her shoulder. It was her friend Griselda, who had worked there for as long as Chloe had been getting her books there, which wasn't long. "I have a book for you!"
(Griselda had been keeping an eye out for certain books as they arrived, as a favor to Chloe, who had the idea that she wanted to collect all the books with the word "ocean" in the title. It was an ongoing project, but she had
collected quite a range, thanks in large part to Griselda's efforts.)
"It's called 'Near the Ocean' by Robert Lowell."
(The cover was aqua, with corners worn white with wear. The title, in a sans serif italic, sat in an off-white square, with aqua wave lines alternating each word, which were stacked one on top of another, flush left. It was very 60s.)
"Thank you, this is perfect."
Forgetting her mission to find a useful book, Chloe took off her coat and sat at a table with the volume... But first, a glass of wine, she thought. She stood up and went to the bar.
(Hello's. The order. Merlot please. Digging through her wallet. Thank you.)
Taking her seat again, she opened the cover. 1967. She couldn't help but wonder whether she would have preferred to have lived then. Maybe her happiness would have been greater. She started thinking about all that she wanted but couldn't have, and all that she had but didn't want. Drifting in thought, she sighted a man in the corner with a solitary stack of books like a skyscraper. Beyond him, she drifted up the stairs and up to the platform that stretched across the second level of the store. Gazing over the railing, she watched herself from above. And suddenly everything felt light and free, and all the bookstore and its patrons were just characters in some movie sitting on a dusty shelf.
No comments:
Post a Comment