morning

I tumble out of the dust and gloom of my apartment onto the sidewalk of Pacific Street. Make a right. The long block to Kingston Avenue is like a warming of the motor, thinking of sitting on the vinyl seats of our old capacious, ornery but reliable ‘77 Grand Safari station wagon, which made the journey from Massachusetts to California carrying a family of five and all their belongings - sitting in the cold of the car in the pre-dawn light as the motor turns, coughs and catches, as my father applies gentle pressure now and then to the gas pedal, and I’m envisioning the bundles of newspaper waiting for me in the next neighborhood over. I rev myself up for the day, walking down Pacific Street to Kingston, with a wary eye on the intersection, expecting any moment my bus - the B43 - to pass swiftly by, at which point I will break into a run, because I know it’ll most likely be stopped at the next intersection with Atlantic Avenue, a long light, and I can sprint up ahead to the next stop, where I’ll have enough time to catch my breath before it swerves to the curb to pick me up. “Good morning.” “Good morning.” My MetroCard slides neatly into the slot, which shoves it back out with approval, I slip it back into my right pocket - walletless - and walk slowly down the aisle to pick out an empty seat, if there is one. There is one. I lodge myself comfortably, arrange my bag, pull out a book and start reading. A half hour later, at Graham Avenue and Metropolitan, I bound lightly out the rear door and take in the brisk air, my second leaving of “home”, for the bus is a sort of extension of home, as the subway never can be. I will not go underground before coffee. At Variety Cafe I greet whatever barista happens to be working. They all know my name, and I theirs, and here is my third home of the day, and me barely gone from the first. I take my coffee over to the condiments counter, jostle for space there or wait for some to free up, add soy milk and a second or two of the sugar jar tipped upside down over it - a glance around the cafe - carefully apply a lid, then carry coffee and bag out onto the bench, where I tease a cigarette from the package, squeeze out some of the tobacco onto the ground, take a sip of coffee - never smoke before that first sip - and settle myself comfortably. My mind wanders in ever widening concentric circles, or ambles down some tree-lined avenue of memory. Cigarette done, I crush it beneath my sneaker, hoist myself up off the bench and head for the subway. Down in the stale air of the station, with huge walls of warm municipal winds pushing me first this way, then that, I wait for my train to arrive. Perhaps I open my book again, if there’s a place to sit. When the train pulls into the station, I align myself perfectly against the side of a door and wait for exiting passengers to clear out, then swivel round into the train car and, if I’m lucky, find a seat. There is a certain set of muscles one uses in the subway, that work diligently, involuntarily to keep you balanced. Along your ribs, the backs of your legs, and your neck. We might see them on a chart. I rock and careen through the tunnels, some automatic, pre-conscious part of my mind keeping note of the station stops, until I arrive at 14th Street, Union Square. There I rise energetically, push up against the door, and spill out into the station in search of the nearest staircase. At any staircase I know my way automatically to the uptown 4, 5 or 6 trains. Rarely do I focus on anything in particular. During the week this station is stuffed with people. I keep my gaze abstracted, approximately straight ahead, and move about with an unwonted elegance, an instinctive choreography, barely brushing against anybody, arriving at my destination with little or no memory of how I got there. The 6 train, the local, arrives first. It’s always emptier, so I always have a seat, and I’m always early, so the extra station stops don’t matter. I read. I do not look up. At 96th Street I step cleanly off the train and onto the platform, where there is only one exit. I rise into the clean, orderly ruckus of Lexington Avenue, having chosen a stairway that puts me on the right side of the street, and already walking toward Park Avenue, then Madison. I often wait at the traffic light at Park Avenue, gazing in either direction and the pleasing stacks of apartments, the wide, wide avenue stretching away, clinching between its two sides of traffic going in opposite directions the Metro North railroad tracks, which emerge from underground just a few blocks further uptown, and cut a seam all the way up to the Bronx. I cross Park Avenue, chin lifted high to catch the cool through mouth and nostrils. At Madison and 96th I cross, Central Park visible at the far end of the block, just on the other side of 5th Avenue, where atop a slight rise runners, walkers, bikers, joggers intermingle along some track I cannot see, though I know it encompasses the reservoir. Right on Madison. The new bagel shop is a few doors down. I enter on an exhale, almost always. “Morning boss!” “Good morning!” Sometimes I say “boss”, sometimes he says it. I order a cold cut sandwich, $5.50, and smile at the girl behind the register while I wait for it to be made. Before declining her offer of a plastic bag I heft the paper-wrapped sandwich in my right hand - a good weight - today I will feed myself well. Now I return the way I came, up Madison to the intersection with 96th. Right on 96th. Still a half hour before work. I reach a bench on 5th Avenue against the stone wall that is the eastern border of Central Park. I sit down Indian-style, with my back against the slanted wall. Take out my book and another cigarette. I read and smoke like this as pedestrians go to and fro before me, buses pull up to the light, cyclists brake, a dog approaches me from the end of his leash. Now it is time for work. I walk down 5th Avenue to 93rd Street. There is the Guggenheim. A little further, but out of sight, the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Left on 93rd Street. In the shadow of beautiful private homes and well-groomed trees rooted in small boxes of soil and flowers cut into the pavement. There is my bookstore. The Corner Bookstore. I fish keys out of my bag, select the right one, duck under the half-opened gate, and unlock the door…