Trotted across the rest of the park on this very tip of Manhattan Island. The whistle blew. A Staten Island Ferry about to leave. Up the steps. Run. Run. Jump past as the gatekeeper closes the gates. The last passenger getting on board. Ferry pulling out, squealing against the greased great pilings. Go buy a hot dog adorned with bowel-moving sauerkraut, relish and mustard. Go out on deck. Eat it in the breeze. Stare out at this massive statue holding up its torch of liberty. Emblem of this city and America. Vessels anchored in the bay. Try to read the flags they fly. The wind beating upon the cold gray choppy waters. A tugboat plowing through the waves, foam up over its bow. Draw in a breath of chill air. Turn to go back into the warmth. Stop. And there she is, leaning on the railing. In a black beret, her blond hair being blown back by the wind over her shoulders. The delicate whiteness of that face. Amy from Knoxville. And I could hear Max’s voice saying, How modern can life get, pal, how fast, and how surprising, to be even a bigger pain in the ass. And he also said, Amy was from a good family. That he had holed up with her without repercussions. And what a gal.
Then she turned, saw me. And smiles. Wide, beaming and wonderful. And welcoming. I smile. Go tell her now that I’ll take her wherever she wants to go. Even on a jaunt in Max’s ole Bentley, his legacy to me. With the headlights like two large bulging insect eyes. Knock this city for a loop. Sport, as he did, a crimson silk cravat adorned with black dots and stuck with a gold pin. Thumb my nose at those who jeer. And I know now Sylvia meant no harm when she said, “Throw that rag away.” And even though death may never be put to death, let us ask that you who take the dead away always treat them kindly. And play music please.
Amy from Knoxville said she would stay on in New York and find a job. And it was on a day a month later that I’d gone to see the famed conductor and to meet him on the steps of the Juilliard School of Music following his holding auditions and also to meet a cellist he had heard of there. But he had just learned from two girls, fellow students, about a girl named Sabrina, who had shot herself in the bus station and who at the school was considered one of their most brilliant young cellists. And as I stood there, still in my mind. That image. Of the girl in the bus station. “Excuse me, sir.” When I was so near her. And who was she. And did it ever matter that I find out in this small city with its millions. And now had found out. On these steps where she once must have stood. And where she must have seen me at least once standing. For now I remember her features. posture and the warmth of her healthy glow. And I should have known of her life-threatening distress which was said in her words written all over her face. Just like the man who was also there and had just gone by. With his own face wreathed with concern.
To tell everybody
That wrong information
Is being given out
At Princeton