Hexagons meant only one thing to Noah Ryder. They meant soccer. And he so did play that sport, football he preferred to call it, even in New York City where it was so hard to come by. Your average soccer ball contained 36 hexagons of equal size, 8 of which are generally black and the rest white, (and I the author have done no research on this math and so you believe me even if those facts are totally false). So six days after the annual soccer season, spring at least, has ended, he re-begins his personal training in fears of losing any degree of stamina.
The height of summer or its beginning. Walking along the East River, from the field and now reclining. He’s on a catwalk thanks to construction. The moguls plan to expand Southern Manhattan’s East River viability, therefore in 2007 be a grand cementing of planks and piers. Noah has navigated, arguably illegally, a sturdy line of rock and wood that takes him, though beyond a fence, to the Eastmost center line of the East River Park. One foul step or left one and he’ll be in the foul cold river water. Never has Noah questioned the salience of New York’s rivers…salience meaning cleanliness. Despite the rhetoric of waste/filth, he’s thought of them as pools ready for the skinny dipping. Today, however, was not the day. Too lonely.
Noah reached, after two or three minutes of exuberant rebellion, an iron stud that foreclosed upon his intrepid catwalking. In order to continue South he would need to either swim…or step askew to the cement flatness, scramble the damn fence, and then walk it like a normal jogger or biker would. Damn.
He took the latter option. A simple fence hoperation and then he was near the zenith of Manhattan’s East River Park. Zenith meaning an awesome and humble amphitheater that got little to no press and equivalent degrees of populous. Today upon that spot was a Hispanic family’s boisterous and hilarious birthday party for some matriarch. With no scheduled plans between now and 2009, (seeking humor), Noah took it upon himself to imitate an excited and feverish guest at the party.
Today he wore a black set of frisky running shorts with white stripes, blue hi-top sneakers, red/white baseball jersey, and a backwards purple cap that allayed his satirical disappointment with home team; NYU Violets. In short, he severely did not mesh with the general jaundiced Billabong and Sean Paul/John of the birthday crowd. (Even the author’s description of this style shows his inexperience at local Grand Street barbecues). Anyway, he was not the only lanky white boy at the ceremony and he did succeed in his attempt at fooling. Noah waltzed right up to the birthday woman and said, “Hey! Happy birthday! What’s your name? I’m just passing through, taking a jog, wanted to give best wishes!” She, named Kimberly, seemed about 30 and was laden with children and men drinking Budweiser and she did not mind my approach but rather appreciated my sincerity and sighed sighed at the kids leaning on her. As soon as I said the word “wishes!” she said “Juan, boy, don’t you be pullin’ on that tablecloth or I’ll be taking back that toy I just gave you…” or something. Then she turned to me, loving, and said “Thank you.” Purely, and she just didn’t care. So I helped myself to a piece of cake. It was ice cream cake and I don’t really ever want ice cream especially after a day of exercise. So I gave it to a little girl laying in the grass. She smiled about it.
About the time that I lost interest observing the crowd, which I did for a while – I saw the Yankees fans rivaling the boombox beats…Tupac, Missy, or was it advertisements, or some Spanish station that I didn’t speak?…I noticed a dance performance that was ongoing in the aforementioned amphitheater. Some sort of Kathakali rhythm spirit spunk funk theater, or a desperate disparate youthful thrash. I settled down in the ancient stone seating to see the last segment. A majestic black woman with flowing gown centering some chorus of her spectral souls. In the lower right corner was a crew of the children of those Bud toting gents from before, and the Carmens and Kims and Penelopes were guarding them or policing them as they, the kids, sat wrapt in the divine dance of these, (I later found out) NYU drama kids. Once, upon the clip-lit scene of a curvaceous ballerina and a strong blonde American making sporadic love, a happy birthday song came from my right, down the hill, from the barbecue and fridge of the family. I smiled. This performance was punctuated by the discipline and love of these families, (when their kids would run towards the stage there would be a torrent of profanity or caustic declamation), all of whom were gathered there to appreciate said Kimberly and her 27th birthday and their various New York and prodigious friends and/or progeny.
As I sat on the stone bench and watched the close of this weird theater and this weird birthday, the sun was setting. The East River told the story the best with its orange and purple reflections. Mostly clouds, generally refracting the color, in the sky itself.
Even until the end of the play the drummer was vitriolic and awake. Was he jamming the rhythm of the dancers or was it the rhythm of the Hispanic birthday near him, or its children, that he played? I noted that he stepped on a cymbal in the gravel to make a crunchy sound that meant the walk of one character. I noted that he blasted the tom to mean the orgasm or partition of another character’s body. I remained riveted until a strange dark fell upon the park and the party disbanded and the entire company descended the hatchshell stage and hugged and walked off with their friends and loves. I sat single upon those, like I said ancient, stone benches.
Now it was about ten o’clock in the night and I took it upon myself to wander to Chinatown. This was not a far wander but I regrettably left the river, my boon for the day. No fields or parks in Chinatown. Who did I find there? Near a dark and solitary curb of Mulberry Street I heard a clank. Clank! It meant life, or death, and I chose to investigate, and thus I discovered my pet and friend and dog. I named him Major, my soon close friend, a dog who had on that very night a hurt leg, hit by a taxi, later healed and so happy to have a home in me.
