Pedestrian 21: Wallflower
Walking at night beneath the crescent moon.
My favorite time to walk is during the night – preferably on a Friday or Saturday – while everyone's out drinking at the bars, attending an event, or conversing with friends over a late dinner. There’s a certain energy in the air. The five day work week has come to an end and the checks have been cashed. On these nights, it’s easier to disappear; to become a wallflower.
Come with me for a second. I’ll show you.
I’m standing on the corner of Prince and Mercer in SoHo waiting for a film that’s about to begin. Each street produces its own cast of characters and the plot is never the same. Drinking a macchiato (a late night habit, I confess, I’ve developed since moving here), I lean my back against a brick wall and take out my phone. The gesture implies I’m waiting for someone, but nobody is coming – I’m only trying to disappear.
The camera pans from a busy sidewalk to the face of a line cook of a longstanding Italian restaurant. He stands beside the service door while taking deep drags from a cigarette. As he exhales, the smoke obfuscates his mustached face. A moment passes and his droopy eyes emerge. I'm in the presence of another wallflower.
It’s the look on his face that gives it away. He’s had a long night, but he scans the pavement, occasionally locking with the irregular rhythm of shuffling passerby feet. His eyes snap back to the sidewalk before him like a ball attached to a taut rubber band. He’s searching for something.
Across the street two garbagemen load heaping piles of trash into the back of their truck as a group of young women talk among themselves. It’s amazing. The garbage man pulls a lever and I watch the truck roar as it consumes its feast. It’s so loud, yet the women are undisturbed. I can’t believe they hear one another.
I return my eyes to the cook, but he’s vanished.
Further up Broadway sits a group of young professionals around the table of an upscale dining establishment. I’ve no connection to these people, and for a moment, imagine myself sitting beside them, in the empty chair, deeply involved in their conversation. These are my best friends, my coworkers, my classmates, my life’s partners.
I’m lost in thought until I lock eyes with a dark haired woman sitting at the table, reminding me that I’m in the middle of a crosswalk as a car approaches. She returns her attention to her friends while a gentleman takes the empty seat beside her. While I can’t hear what they’re speaking of, I think it has something to do with a recent home purchase. The comfort they project is intoxicating. At one time, I worked for a company who described their target customers as “HENRY’s” – High Earners Not Rich Yet. Could these professionals be the very “HENRY’s” they sought to capture?
There is a certain allure in getting lost in the lives of others; throughout the evening I create narratives and speculate on individuals I encounter, typically those who appear of greater means, and I wonder. It’s not that I yearn for the chips to have fallen differently – I’ve chosen a life of few guarantees and inconsistent paychecks, but in the end haven’t we all? Had I chosen otherwise, would I be sitting at that table right now?
The film cuts exposing a wide shot of Madison Square Park. I’m walking beneath the trees, passing bench after bench, while pairs of silhouettes whisper to themselves. A symphony of rats squeak inside a plastic bag; they’re feasting upon a discarded meal. In the sky hangs a crescent moon. Its illuminance is no match for the streetlights and office buildings below, thus producing a dark, unnatural, purple sky.
Time and distance will always fascinate me. The moon is present where the earth is blanketed by the darkness of night. Someplace, somewhere, someone is looking at the moon just as I am. 1,100 miles away my mother is sleeping. My father is driving a semi truck through rural Minnesota (can he also see the moon?). In Seoul, a friend sits down for brunch. Just across the East River my brother has finished a movie at a theater in Williamsburg. In Los Angeles is someone I’ve yet to meet, although we will become very close in our lifetime.
In a city of substantial population, such as New York City, one tends to feel as though there are worlds, inside of worlds, inside of worlds, inside of worlds that have yet to be experienced. Call it unfinished business, but it’s one reason why I find it so difficult to leave, despite the pull to be elsewhere.
It’s getting late and a persistent yawn reminds me it’s time to go back to Brooklyn. There are nights where I forgo the train in favor of walking all the way to my apartment, but tonight I’ve concluded my legs could use the rest. I could just as easily call a car and be home within twenty minutes, but what fun is that for a wallflower?
Below the street a man's voice bellows throughout the train station. Could it be he is busking or just singing to sing? His audience, sleepy from late night activities, doesn’t seem to mind otherwise. His presence, while just as entertaining, likely keeps them from falling asleep and missing their train. I watch as the passengers perk up as the glow of the train emerges from the tunnel at the end of the platform.
From atop the Williamsburg Bridge I watch the Manhattan skyline glimmer from the train window. The crescent moon still watches. Just moments ago I was walking those streets, but now it’s time for bed. The closing credits roll.
As always, I’m Alex Wolfe, and this is Pedestrian: a newsletter for people who like to walk. Thanks for reading.
“The everyday world is the most astonishing inspiration conceivable. A walk down 14th Street is more amazing than any masterpiece of art.” –Allan Kaprow
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Always dig your photos, Alex. I definitely know this weekend energy you're describing—makes me miss NYC. And it's especially interesting to observe the atmosphere when you happen to be more sober than the folks surrounding you. ;)