Penn Station teems with people. People in saris, in turbans, in cowboy hats, in motorcycle jackets, ballet shoes, lots of black business suits. Chinese, Indian, African-American, Spanish. Short and round, tall and thin. Good cover, one kid in a city this size, no wonder Holden came here. It takes two sightings of the purple I LOVE NEW YORK balloons before I realize I’ve gone around the station in a circle. And I’m no closer to getting out. Tentacled hallways spin out in all directions. How the hell am I supposed to know whether I want Madison Square Garden or Thirty-second Street?
The escalator rises above me and I make an instant decision. Stale humid air turns into a tunnel of wind. Smelly, cold, buffets of real world. I’m in New York, the big city, Holden’s stomping grounds. I’m actually really here. Mack’s voice echoes, “Did you ever think…”
A splinter of blue sky appears through the glass wall at the top and streaming yellow. Taxis. Nick would love the action. He’d be sprinting down sidewalks, jaywalking like a long-time resident. I’m with Holden, though. I like the idea of sitting back and letting someone carry me through the madness.
It’s not exactly what I expected. More people on the streets, more cars. Of course Holden skips telling about that part because he’s used to it. Plus he’s so busy thinking up people he knows that he can call. It isn’t anywhere near as exciting, though, as it would be with Meredith or Joe or Mack. Now that I think of it, Joe’s been here with his college buddies. Some TV network visit for his poli sci major? Museum research? I don’t remember much except his ranting about the cost of food and the number of gorgeous models in mink coats on Fifth Avenue. Food and girls are a huge part of Joe’s existence. To be honest, his stories don’t have the same power to impress as Holden’s. Not that I would ever tell Joe that.
I wish I could talk about the trip with Meredith. I didn’t—couldn’t—mention New York to her ahead of time. We were talking about other things, more important things. And at the end—when I knew I was leaving—we weren’t doing much talking. Still, she’d be a good traveler, curious but patient. She pays attention to little things. She’d notice a gazillion things I’d miss: murals in lobbies, men on I beams twenty stories high, Siamese cats in a Dumpster. I try to take it all in so I can write to her. I’ll have time once I find the right doctors and they start the chemo treatments. There’ll be plenty of time then. People are always talking about chemo in terms of the number of sessions. It’s bound to be a long haul.
With all these strangers around, it’s weird to feel so alone. If I only had some idea where the places are that HC talks about in Catcher. He should have done a sketch, like the one on the inside cover of Winnie the Pooh, with the Edmont Hotel, Central Park South, Ernie’s. Not that he’s the kind of guy to give directions exactly.
Even with the long nap on the train, I have no energy for walking. After watching people emerge from the station and immediately swing right into the taxi line, their suitcases like ducklings behind them, I edge into the line myself. Some people sit on their luggage, but Dad’s rolling bag is too small. I should have brought the folding camp stool. Then they’d really be able to spot me as a hick.
When it’s my turn, the taxi driver doesn’t get out to help with the bag. I wait a second, until I realize he’s not moving. Harem music is on his radio. This should be interesting. While I’m struggling to lift my suitcase high enough to stick it in the backseat, the woman behind me steps forward, grabs it, and throws it in.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Next time pack lighter,” she says. “You’re holding up the line.”
Welcome to New York.
The Edmont Hotel doesn’t exist anymore. At least the taxi driver has never heard of it.
“How about Horn and Hardart?”
He throws up one hand. “Is that some kind of dance joint?”
“It’s a cafeteria-type place.”
“You want eat. Tourists go Benihana.” He swings across three lines of traffic and swerves into a narrow side road in a new direction entirely.
“No, no, I’m not hungry. How about the Algonquin Hotel?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He makes an even wilder U-turn, yelling and gesturing to the honking horns all around us. The cab surges into the traffic, only to brake hard and lurch to the right to avoid a black limousine that screeches to a halt within inches of my door. The lady inside opens her mouth in a silent scream. When I laugh, my driver turns around and stares. Not worth explaining that a fatal car accident is not the worst thing imaginable to someone in my position.
At the Algonquin they want more money for one night’s stay than I’ve ever had to my name. Holden forgot to mention his father was filthy rich. I could kick myself for not figuring that out. Private schools and tweed sport coats that other guys want to borrow and a high-rise townhouse with an elevator. While I’m inquiring at the front desk for less expensive hotels, the cabbie gets tired of waiting. Just as well—I don’t want to think about how much he would have charged for the half hour it takes me to get the tiny foreign man at the desk to understand what I need.
By the time I finally choose a Yellow Pages listing that advertises rooms by the week, my stomach is growling. I use three of Nick’s crumpled dollars to buy one of those famous pretzels from a sidewalk cart and walked east toward Fifth Avenue like I know what I’m doing. In the shadows at one corner a girl catches at my elbow. She prances in place in the highest heels I’ve ever seen and the shortest skirt. While she talks, she glances up and down the block as if she’s on the lookout. Not sure what that’s all about.
“Wanna see New York?” Her voice is cracked and high. Hard to tell if she’s nervous or scared. “I can show you a good time and the sights for a bill. Two hours for a bill, buddy. Isn’t that what you had in mind?”
What I know is that when Holden said yes to the same kind of girl, he got stuck, and I’m not going there. He might have known the dancing hot spots and the bars that didn’t card, but I don’t have hours to waste sitting in a bar over small talk. If Mack had come, or if I wasn’t running out of time…
“Maybe another day,” I say, still walking.
Her face clouds and she reaches out for my arm. I step backward and miss the curb. The rush of a passing car, a blast of gritty exhaust. I stumble, lean forward, feel myself falling. Clawing at my sleeve, she closes her grip and pulls me back onto the sidewalk.
“Buddy, you gotta pay more attention. What country you from?”
And before I can answer or explain, she’s melted into the flow of passing arms and legs as if she were only in my imagination. The light changes and the sidewalk around me empties for the briefest second. When it fills in again, she’s nowhere.
A manic sweep of pedestrians carries me along until I finally spot the sign for Fifth Avenue. Here the sidewalks are wider and pedestrians are a mix of business suits and shoppers. More women in heels, flashes of jewelry, swinging leather briefcases. Without thinking, I let the crowd carry me past cheerful guards with polished buttons and through a spinning glass doorway. The words TRUMP TOWER are embossed on the wall. I’ve heard of it, but not from Holden.