It had been a rough few days for me. On Friday, I adopted a beautiful grey tabby cat named Copper from an animal shelter in Manhattan and brought her back to my home in Astoria, Queens. But Copper didn’t eat all weekend, and she spent her time hiding under my bed. I tried a whole range of foods to entice her, from tuna to sardines to chicken salad to homemade meatballs. Nothing worked. It was now Tuesday, and I was starting to get really worried.
On top of that, my writing career was on life support. I deeply believed in my writing, and in my website and blog, but I just hadn’t been able to attract the traffic I was hoping for. I was also enrolled as a student in the CUNY Writer’s Institute, but the program had been a disappointment for me so far.
On Tuesday at around 2PM, I decided to get out of Queens fore a much-needed break and head downtown. I had two destinations in mind. One was Soho around Prince Street, and the other was Hudson River Park on the lower west side of Manhattan. I’d gone to Hudson River a million times and I totally loved it. I would usually spend some time walking along the river promenade, and some time walking along the bike path that parallels the park.
I finally decided that lower Manhattan on the west side would be too isolated, and I wanted to be around the bold and beautiful people of the city. Prince Street was a center of hip urban chic, with lots of clothing stores, tall thin beautiful blond women, and wealthy heirs and heiresses ambling around. It was just what I needed to take my mind off my troubles, and to get out of the Queens mindset.
Little did I know that by choosing Soho over Hudson River Park, I narrowly avoided being ensnared in the worst terrorist attack to hit New York City since 9/11. Because at 3:05pm, Sayfullo Saipov, an Uzbek immigrant who lived in Tampa, drove a Home Depot truck over scores of people on the bike path I had frequented on the far west side. He killed eight people in all, bicyclists and walkers. 11 more were injured. It was a horrific act, the worst terrorist attack in New York City since 9/11.
But let me back up. Because a lot happened on this day, both to my hometown New York City and to me personally. So, to recap, at 2:20pm I boarded the N train in Astoria bound for Manhattan. From the moment we reached Manhattan at around 2:40pm, there were delays and slow service. I was frustrated, stressed, and in a rage at the MTA. We finally reached Prince Street at 3:15pm.
I emerged from the subway and was immediately surrounded by those beautiful people I mentioned. My head began to spin, and, given how broke I was, I felt like I had just landed on an alien planet full of wealthy people. I was about 8,000 light years from Astoria, and especially from the state of my current bank account.
I walked a couple blocks along Broadway, and spotted a fancy chic tea place. What the hell, I told myself, let’s get off the street and relax, treat ourselves to a little luxury. Maybe they have some fancy herbal concoction that will make me happy and wealthy.
I got to the counter and ordered a Nitro iced tea, which the barista assured me was sweet and cinnamon-y. I found a table, slung my backpack on the opposite chair, sat down, and tried the tea.
Yum! This was some good stuff. It had a definite taste of cinnamon, and also perhaps honey, or maybe maple syrup. Whatever it was, it was delicious. I gave myself a metaphorical pat on the back for venturing outside my comfort zone and trying something new.
I spent the next hour and a half drinking tea, taking care of work and school stuff on my phone, and enjoying the calm blissful feeling of being in an upscale tea shop where everyone is polite and everything is warm and soft. It was kind of the opposite of Queens.
Towards the end of my time at the tea shop, I started to get hungry. I Yelped the closest pizza places and was considering getting a slice when the woman at the next table over returned from the counter to her seat with a box of scones. Hmmm. They looked good, and I was intrigued. I could head out and get a slice, or I could go with the scones. But then it dawned on me that like most New Yorkers, I eat pizza about 17 times a day, so I decided to try the scones.
The guy at the counter recommended chocolate chip. It was two scones to a box, and they were accompanied by Devonshire Cream. I returned to my seat, applied some cream to a piece of chocolate chip scone, and popped it in my mouth. Holy crap! These things were incredible. I’d had scones before, and one of my ex-girlfriends had even prepared English tea service for us several times. But these scones were otherwordly. Sweet, salty, rich, chewy, and decadent. I slipped into a food coma as I contentedly ate the scones, lost in thought and warm and happy all over.
I finally left the tea place around 4:45pm with the thought that I would catch the N or W train back to Queens at Prince Street. But I had to stop at the bank first, to deposit a $5,000 check that my brother had sent me as part of a loan I had given him years earlier. I was really relieved that he had come through and sent me the check, because my checking account balance had dipped to about $200.
I entered an HSBC on Broadway, popped my card in, and deposited my brother’s check. Whew! That was a relief. I then decided to withdraw $200, but when I selected the withdraw option, I was rejected. The receipt said I had insufficient funds.
Damn! I knew I had the $5,000 from my brother, but my current balance had dipped below $200. I was kind of stunned by the whole experience, so I didn’t bother to check exactly how much I had left today. Instead I just exited the bank and headed north on Broadway. I reached Prince Street in about seven minutes. I was about to descend to the subway when I noticed Dean and Deluca, the famous gourmet food store, right there on the corner. Why not? I may have only had a couple hundred bucks to my name, and my withdrawal request may have been rejected, but my brother Ken’s check was good, and I knew I’d be fine in a couple days. I might as well eat well now and worry about my balance later.
I entered the store and immediately felt my eyes widen. I had grown up in an upper-middle class household, and had had some early professional success, including time working at the United Nations, as well as for the South Korean government. But unforeseen circumstances and plain old bad luck had torpedoed my career several years earlier, and shopping at places like Dean and Deluca was now off limits.
But man, was it cool. They had cheeses from all over the world. They had smoked meats of every variety. They fish from everywhere. Soups. Bread. And lots more. I picked up some turkey meatloaf, grilled artichokes, chili lime shrimp, brussels sprouts and kale salad, and a kalamata olive and feta baked pretzel. All in all, a pretty elevated selection of food, and way better than the boar’s head turkey, canned tuna and supermarket rotisserie chicken I normally ate in Queens.
I was heading toward the register when I passed a pate section. I hadn’t had pate in about ten years, and I was mesmerized by the selection they had in the case. The guy behind the counter told me I could sample anything I wanted, don’t be shy. I scanned the case and settled on a somewhat affordable Mousse Truffle pate to try. He gave me a tiny spoonful, which I eagerly popped in my mouth.
Dear Lord. This thing was incredible. You know what it tasted like? It tasted like wealth, pure and simple. Like the kind of food you only encountered when you lived a lavish, luscious lifestyle. I was reminded of how I had once traveled on the perimeter of this world, close enough to enjoy a comfortable taste, and how far I had fallen. I ordered a ¼ lb of the pate, picked up some crackers to go with it, and made my way to the register.
Now came the moment of truth. I figured I had about $50 worth of luxury food in my basket. My bank account just registered below $200. Where was the line? Would the charges go through? The young female African American cashier rang up my food, and it came to $40.98. I slid my debit card into the card reader and waited. “Scanning. Don’t remove card. Scanning. Don’t remove card.” At this point I was about ready to have a heart attack. My pulse was pounding and my temples were throbbing. But wait, what’s this? Approved! Yes! Everything went through. Thank the frigging world. I told myself that regardless of what happened in the future with my career and my finances, tonight I would dine like the king I deserved to be, and I would have pate.
I exited Dean and Deluca, descended the stairs to the R/W station, and after five minutes of waiting, boarded a W train bound for Astoria. Once again, the train crawled its way along the BMT lline. At the 23rd Street station I checked WFAN, the local sports station, on my phone. There was a headline about a violent crime in Manhattan. But Internet service is spotty underground, and I lost the station soon after I saw the headline. At 59th Street and Lexington Avenue, I checked Facebook. A high school friend I had had little contact with in 25 years marked herself safe during the “Violent Incident in Manhattan.” Wait, what? WTF were they talking about? I scrolled down and read about a suspected terrorist attack in lower Manhattan, on the very bike path I had been thinking about checking out. Jesus.
Next I went to the New York Times app, to see what the paper of record had to say about this horrific event. But just as I opened the app, we descended under the East River, and the Internet cut out. I was now fully and completely going crazy. I had to know what the hell had happened. We were underground for the typical minute or so, and then we emerged onto Queensborough Plaza. I checked my phone, but still no service. I knew from experience that we needed to be about a half mile away from Queensboro Plaza to get service.
As me moved eastward into Queens, I finally got a signal. I went to the NYT app, but they had nothing on the attack. I figured if anyone had a violent crime in NYC covered well, it would be the Daily News, so I checked them out next.
Yup. Sure enough, they had a lengthy article detailing the attack. A 29-year old immigrant man from Uzbekistan, Sayfullo Saipov, who had been living in Tampa, Florida, rammed a Home Depot truck into bikers and pedestrians on the Hudson river bike path in lower Manhattan between Houston and Chambers Streets.
Motherfucker. That was my first reaction. As in what kind of scumbag drives a truck over people enjoying themselves on a pleasant fall day. But then there really is no answer to a question like this, and it’s been asked for many years by governments all over the world.
Because terrorism is beyond explanation. It’s just the worst of humanity using its human strength and power to kill and destroy the best of humanity. They may tell you it’s for political aims. But that’s bullshit. It’s violent domination, pure and simple.
And it sucks.
I mean, if you have political grievances, by all means, air them in the open, protest loudly, and engage in civil disobedience. But don’t fucking run over bicyclists and walkers on a bike path in lower Manhattan on a nice day, on Halloween of all fucking days. That’s not making a political statement. That’s just cowardly destruction. Build something, create something, forge a better world. Don’t tear down, destroy, and violate all that is good in life.
I finished the Daily News article just as the train pulled into the Astoria Blvd. station. I exited the train and started the ten minute walk to my apartment. I had had a fun, enjoyable, and relaxing day. And I had some pate and other food with me that I was really psyched to try later in the evening.
But eight people had been killed by a terrorist in my city, and 11 more had been injured. So the day had a huge scar on it, and a massive hole had been torn through my heart. I would have my food, and I would relax on my couch. But I would also think about what had happened in lower Manhattan, and pray for the victims and families of this most heinous act. Justice, and my love for humanity, demanded this.
