Pedestrian 36: Two Long Island Stories

Celebrating the 2nd anniversary of my Long Island walk with two in-progress short stories from my upcoming book.

The Montauk Highway. October 19th, 2021.

Hi all, Alex Wolfe here, and this is Pedestrian, a newsletter on the observations, feelings, people, and experience of moving—often walking—through the built environment. Today, I write with a special edition of the newsletter…

On this day two years ago, I started a nine-day, 158-mile walk across Long Island.

That morning wasn’t unlike most mid-October mornings: the sky was a dismal grey, and the warmth of summer had officially retreated. Starting beneath the Verrazzano Bridge in Brooklyn, I looked out into the choppy waves of the ocean, where a tanker sat anchored in the water. I wanted to stay, too, as I wasn’t particularly excited for the walk. I was going through a breakup and contemplating leaving New York City for good. The prospect of spending nine days with my thoughts walking along congested streets sounded awful. To add to my stress, I had agreed to let two filmmakers, Claire Read and Nora DeLigter, film my journey. Their efforts eventually resulted in a documentary titled The Pedestrian, released this year and has since premiered at multiple film festivals.

My walk across Long Island was not a cakewalk, but I did finish with a sense of resolve, and I’m glad I did it. I felt more in touch with my body, psyche, and place in the world. I spent nine days getting to know Long Island—a place I knew so little—and the people who call it home. Once I reached Montauk Point Lighthouse, I was euphoric and eager for nine more days on the road. The journey forever holds a special place in my heart.

To remember my walk, I’m sharing two in-progress stories from my upcoming book (to be released next year). The first is about my stay at an Airbnb in Levittown, NY on the second night of my nine-day walk. The last, from the fifth day, is about a hairy situation walking along the Montauk Highway. Seeds of these stories first appeared in a pop-up newsletter I shared throughout the walk but have since been expanded and reworked. These are two of my favorites.

Enjoy.

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Levittown

America’s first mass-produced suburb does not have a proper main street, that is, unless you consider a busy six-lane turnpike dividing the town into two halves as such. However, where there is no main street, a Dunkin’ Donuts is nearby, ready to fill the void. You might as well call it the town square.

There, I met Mike, a retired NYPD officer. Born in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, he’s called Levittown home for the better half of his life. He is friendly, mustached, and holds a large coffee in his left hand. As we speak, he intermittently pauses the conversation to take a sip and finishes with a ‘yep’ or ‘uh huh.’ He gives me the lay of the land, mentioning Levittown is a nice enough place where working-class people can still get their slice of the American Dream.

“Yep. They were buildin’ em every fifteen minutes in the middle of the century. So what if none of ‘em have basements? There was no time!”

Seventeen thousand four hundred sixty-six homes, all built between 1947 and 1951 on land once covered in potato farms—the most significant suburban development in the world for its time. Not much has changed since.

Residential streets named Daffodil, Wheelbarrow, and Bluebonnet Lane wind and curve. The massive water tower looming in the distance is my northern star. The homes are identical with slight variations and sit at an angle to afford residents further privacy. Bay windows, asphalt shingles, vinyl signing, custom dormers, detached garage. Manicured lawns and the smell of fresh-cut sod. Inflatable Halloween decorations. A young boy aimlessly riding a bicycle in the street. 

A sign hangs from the front window of a home sectioned off by a white picket fence: This home is open to God, sunshine, and friends. In the landscaping reads another sign.

Attention! Security camera in use. YOU ARE BEING WATCHED.

I step into the street. Bring my camera to my face, focus the lens, and press the shutter button—textbook suburbia.

“Don’t you take pictures of my house!”

A woman stands on the porch beneath a portico supported by two bastardized doric columns. 

“Don’t you laugh. I’ll call the cops!”

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Tonight, I’m staying in Levittown. Walking here is not a coincidence or a convenient place to stay en route to Montauk. This is American history. My lodging for the evening is an original Cape Cod-style home listed on Airbnb by a woman named Gina. The pictures in the listing make my heart sink. I can already tell this won’t be good, but I must stay in one of the original Levitt homes; otherwise, I wouldn’t get the whole Levittown experience. This was the only Cape Cod-style home I could find. A short review exacerbates my suspicions. ‘Be careful,’ it says, but is followed by a raving review. For eighty-five dollars a night, I’ll take my chances.

I knock on the front door, wait a moment, and knock again—nothing. Three minutes pass, and I try again with harder knocks.

  “Be right there!”

Inside, I hear feet rumbling about. I can’t discern the muffled voices, save for someone cursing to themselves—off to a bad start. I wait for ten minutes before a woman greets me at the door. Her name is Gina, but looks nothing like the profile picture in the Airbnb listing. 

“Come inside! Come inside!”

The interior smells faintly of cigarette smoke. A bed sheet hangs from the ceiling in the living room beside a fish tank. A mattress lays on the floor—a makeshift bedroom. Objects and papers fill the cluttered living room, and the furniture does not match. The carpet looks like oatmeal. Above the couch is a mass-produced painting of a Rottweiler.

In the kitchen, I’m greeted by a friendly man named Jimmy, likely in his late thirties or early forties. He has a NOS energy drink logo tattooed on his neck, holds a can of Bud Light, and drinks from a straw. He leads me to my bedroom in the back of the house while taking sips.

“You want a beer, brother?”

The room is surprisingly clean. A twin-size bed sits beneath the window. A television console stands beside the door. Across the room is a dresser and mirror. Fresh towels hang in the closet. I shut the door immediately, realizing there isn’t a lock on the knob, and remove my rucksack from my shoulders. 

My evening routine begins. I order a bowl of pasta from a local Italian restaurant and stretch my sore body. I’m interrupted by a loud knock on the door. It’s Gina. 

“You want some food, hun? I make the best Spanish food.”

I decline the offer as my pasta will arrive shortly, but she continues asking. I don’t want to eat her food. As a guest, I can’t be rude and submit after further persistence. I shut the door again, but another knock follows. It’s Jimmy. 

“Hey brother, have you seen a kitchen knife in there?”

“No. No knives in here.”

He shuffles through the dresser drawers, looks in the closet, and checks beneath the bed. Nothing. Who keeps a kitchen knife in a guest bedroom? 

Another knock on the door shortly after finishing my pasta. It’s Gina with my second course. She hands me a paper plate full of yellow rice, kidney beans, and steak cubes. I place the meal on the dresser. I’m too full and push the food around with a plastic fork to make it seem as though I ate the food anyway. Ten minutes pass. Another knock. It’s Gina, again.

“How is everything, hun?”

“Good. Good.”

“She gestures to the living room. He’s walkin’ to Montauk. Can you believe that?”

Behind her stand five or six men. All are holding beers. Some smile. Another raises his can. Most just stare. I smile, shutting the door. I watch reruns of The Price is Right at a high volume to drown out their voices. Something keeps slamming on the closet wall. Before bed, I move the television console before the door so no one can barge into my room while I’m sleeping. I fall asleep to Drew Carey announcing the Showcase Showdown. 

In the morning, I take a shower. Tampons and hair extensions cover the floor. I make the bed. Gina and Jimmy are still sleeping, and all the men are gone. I depart without saying a word.

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You Don’t Have to Go to College

I can’t move any further. Not a step. To do so would risk certain death. Here, the Montauk and Sunrise Highways meet. Traffic accumulates. The shoulder is so tight I must walk on the road's surface. Passing cars grow closer to my body, each one smothering my face in a gust of wind—the speed limit increases. Traffic passes at intervals of five seconds, then three seconds, and now one second. A squealing car horn follows. Exhaust fills my mouth and sinks into my lungs—trouble.

My hat almost blows off my head but is saved by the drawstring snug on my chin.  I adjust, opting for the timber beside the road beyond the steel barrier. Safety, for now, but I’m unaware of my options beneath the brush. Even if I did, I wouldn’t be able to decide. For now, refuge. I fixate on the jet-black asphalt and wait. No answers. It’s midday in early October, and I sit for a long time. These are the situations you forget to mention when your mother calls. 

The horn of the Long Island Railroad taunts me. Yes, that’s it. Follow the steel tracks. I can walk them to Oakdale and reconnect with the Montauk Highway if lucky. For such indecision, I have no hesitation weaving between the timber in search of the tracks. Red Oaks and Sugar Maples grow tighter and tighter until the bark rests on my face. I want to turn back. 

Too late. A piercing pain runs through my side and forearms. I’m caught in an iron maiden of thorns and spines, thick enough to warrant a machete if only I could move. I step three times only to fall back five. Thorns tug on my skin, further tightening their grasp. I can no longer bring my arms back to my sides. My clothes, tattered with holes and tears, hang from my limbs. From afar, I resemble a scarecrow—a warning to those who follow my path.

Walking along high-speed traffic wouldn’t sound so bad if I could retrace my steps. As the crow flies, I’m only half a mile from the roaring hum of the highway, but the thorns have disoriented me. I’m convinced every direction leads to asphalt. Three steps forward, five steps back. More thorns. I move in pain, hobbling slowly until I spot the piercing glow of the sun’s light reflecting from the steel rails between the trees. There’s an opening—salvation.

I pull myself from the brush and hop on the tracks with one final push. I’m caked in the sunshine as the rails draw one clear line through the timber, revealing long, jagged red lines up and down my arms. I walk unobstructed and free but paranoid of the train’s horn. Periodically, I stop and look behind me. No train. Keep moving.

I continue until I see a residential backroad parallel to the tracks—a lucky break. I check my map and find it leads to the Montauk Highway. Oakdale is just a few miles away. The road is so narrow, only allowing one car to pass at a time, but I’m safe. It’s quiet, without any traffic. Instead of trees, I’m surrounded by large homes. Most were built recently, but a handful look like Spanish villas from the nineteenth century. A raft of ducks greet me while swimming in a pond. I’m lost in my thoughts.

“Where ya hiking?”

Three young boys riding PK Ripper bikes park beside me. 

“Montauk. I’m walking to Montauk.”

They don’t believe me, but why would I walk in their neighborhood, covered in dirt and scratches, just for fun? I’m indifferent, given my earlier dance with the thorns. One of the boys presses on, asking where I started. 

“Verrazano Bridge. Five days ago.”

“Get the fuck out.”

Watch your mouth, young man. He cannot believe the words I’m speaking. He gestures with his hands as if to summon a spirit and lets out a big yell. 

“Hey guys!”

Like magic, a blush of boys, no older than thirteen, all on bikes, come barreling down the street.

“GET THIS! HE’S WALKING TO MONTAUK!”

Now I’m surrounded, half believing the event unfolding before me. Are these boys about to kick my ass? What gives? Instead, I’m met with a million questions. 

“Do you have TikTok?”

“How many followers do you have?”

“Can I take a selfie with you?”

“How old are you?”

I disclose my Instagram handle and have fifteen new followers at the drop of a dime. I’m just twenty-nine, but these boys make me feel ancient. Proving my credibility, they are entirely under my spell and continue interrogating me. Instead, I shepherd them together for a big group photo. Whenever I press the shutter, they shout dick jokes and hump the air. I can’t help but laugh. For a moment, I’m thirteen. Before parting ways, I think of the wisdom I wish someone would have left me as a young boy. 

“Follow your dreams. You don’t have to go to college!

Thanks for reading. More soon.
Alex

Brooklyn, NY 11220

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As always, this is Pedestrian, a newsletter on the observations, feelings, people, and experiences of walking through the built environment. If you’d like to support this work, please share it with a friend. See you next month.