In the heart of Washington Heights the time reads 1:18 AM. The engine of a high speed car has just whizzed by my bedroom window, temporarily muting the loud bass rhythms emanating from the nearby Lucky 7 Tapas Bar on the corner block. The Spanish from the venue’s music is imperceptible, but every once in a while, if you listen close enough, you can hear the occasional “Que lo que!” or “Dimelo!” from the newcomers eagerly waiting in line and hoping to get inside.
Off in the distance police car sirens alarm throughout the adjacent neighborhoods. They are closely followed by fully stocked swat cars whose commanding officers are shuffling through papers that list off the names of illegal immigrants inhabiting the community. They carry huge metal poles in case they are met with resistance as well as gold crested shovels in case they need to dig through the ancient floors in the hope of finding more dirt.
Walkie-talkies scramble orders and direct correspondance that, unbeknownst to the families soon to be involved, will dramatically alter their lives forever.
Right now, when I put my ears to my brain and let my imagination perk up for its after hours dessert, I can hear the Wasps enjoying a late snack in some fancy lounge in midtown. The clank of their forks poking at the spare caviar dish makes the Saturday shut-ins wince and the slurp of oyster chasers to wash down their sickening wealth makes the homeless men and women in the below-freezing temperatures vomit in unison.
A gavel is pounded furiously by a grown man toddler in a white room with a painting of himself and a twin painting of his hair coupled with a portrait of his family and a canvas of his ancestors pointing to a tree with a man alive swinging perilously from above with a rope around his neck and a Louis Armstrong scratch coming from his mouth pleading, “Please don’t leave me, please don’t leave me.”
On the ice rink in Astoria a flash mob is dancing to a silent disco brought to you by Herbert Von Karajan. The water bugs below the ice push their antennas to the top trying to separate the loud clanking sounds from the skates and the high pitch frequencies from the headphones that are slowly molding into each dancer’s ears. When the music stops after the concert is done not even the participants can hear each other scream when they find out that they have all gone deaf. The channel has been permanently set to “Harrison Bergeron’s Midnight Delights.”
The patois from East Brooklyn is at a fever pitch. The shut, shut, shut, shut from the 6th, 5th, 4th, 3rd, 2nd, and 1st floor apartment doors and the finale of the front slams in fury. The Hasids mumble their Yiddish and Hebrew and start power walking to the city center. A stampede shuffle heading towards the bridge. Some nearby reporters attempt to follow them on foot, but quickly learn that they will have to sprint if they want to keep up, their fake news reports and all. It could also be the fact that their 100 pound cameras dragging behind are holding them back. The Italians of the Bronx have all convened at Grand Concourse ready to make their trek down to the bridge, as well. The languages of the five boroughs come together like an incantation ready to utter its counter-curse.
As they all begin to quicken to a trot, an almost inaudible crackle reminiscent of slow crumpling of paper can be heard taking shape over each individual’s chest. A magical tattoo more powerful than any forearm number or bicep brand or lashing on the back.
Manoguayabo, Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic.
Nonguén, Concepción, Chile
Nketa, Bulawayo, Zimbabwe
Greenfields, Mandurah, Australia
None Chok, Bangkok, Thailand
Alboraya, Valencia, Spain
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