Beyond the Setting Sun

Escape From New York

'Phut... phut... phut...  Phut... phut... phut.'  The strange sound woke me.  For a few moments I was confused, but the sight of the twin towers rising above brought me back to reality.  Keeping still, I peered through the thin cover of bushes.  Off to my right, beyond the leaves, the outline of some bags of cement could just be made out.  A jogger stood next to them, punching away with another 'phut... phut... phut', before running off.

A mugger out for early morning training was the thought that passed through my head.

It was light and the sleep had done me good.  Rested and hungry, it was time to go and find some breakfast.  Shuffling my way to the edge of the bushes on my back, with the plastic sack stuffed into my coat pocket, I quickly stood up and leapt out of the concealment of the vegetation.  If anyone had been in the square they would have been startled, but it was only around five in the morning and only crazy people were up and about.

With all my plancs having fallen through, my only option was to escape the city.  Before that, though, I decided to do some sightseeing.  Turning tourist, I would visit the Statue of Liberty, before leaving 'civilisation' behind.

The ferry to the statue left from Battery Park, and, on the way down to it, a seedy deli caught hold of my nose, as invitiing breakfast odours poured onto the street.  Just a few steps through an open door and food awaited.

Behind the counter stood a swarthy Turkish man, with dark stubble, slick black hair and darker eyes.

'Whadya wan?'  The charm of the place was underwhelming, but at six in the morning I wasn't going to complain.

'Bacon, eggs... and orange juice.'

Uncertain of what would come next, I sat on a stool facing a calendar of naked women.  In a few minutes breakfast wafted its way over.  In no time it was slurped down.  It was a little bit greasy, but surprisingly not bad.  All thing considered, I felt pretty good and decided to form yet another plan after the boat ride to the statue.  With the last sip of coffee, it was time to meet the day.  Paying the check and saying goodbye to my host, he grunted in reply and our business was concluded.

Just down the road was Battery Park.  On benches lay old tramps and young kids.  Others lay beneath trees, with open bottles next to them.  While I had slept uptown in fine shrubbery, the park was full of the homeless and outcast.  Strolling around the Clinton Memorial Fort, I saw kids barely in their teens covered by plastic bags as they slept in the portholes of the old red sandstone battlements.  Nearby, ironic and sad, was a plaque with the words of poet and patriot Emma Lazarus:

'Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, yearning to breathe free.  The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.  Send these the homeless, tempest-tossed to me.'

Well, here they were.  It seemed little had been learned by the New World from the Old.  The homeless lay there a stone's throw away.  For me the world had just shrunk a little more.  London was the same, with hundreds on the streets.  I felt old and tired then.  The New, the Old, what difference was there?

'Hey, you bums!  Git outa ya holes!'  It was seven and a young black boy on a bike rode around the fort, hooting on a horn and shouting to move people out of the portholes.  Obligingly the vagrants emerged, stiff-legged, clutching their plastic bags, hunched over and coughing in the misty morning chill.  It was strange to watch, surreal, but vivid.  This was my world.

As the street people shuffled around I sat on a bench.  The smooth black promenade stretched away into the fading mist that flowed from the bay.  Peeling an orange and scribbling down notes, time passed and the land of the free waited.