The Atlas of 7th Avenue

It’s a pretty little stone. Orange-red, glossy, and slick to touch.

“What is this, Jessica?”

“A paperweight.”

“I mean what is it made from, what kind of stone is it?”

“Red jasper. Sir.”

“And it gives you comfort, does it?”

“I guess?”

“You guess?”

“I suppose. I mean, yes. It’s calming. Keeps you strong. Because of the energy.”

Energy, she says. I don’t know about that. Wicca, I think they call it. I shouldn’t be surprised. My secretary is a creature of silver bangles and smoky eyeshadow. It fits. No comment on her work, mind, but I would not be at all surprised if she had some beliefs of the esoteric shade. Scented candles and ornate tarot cards and the rest of it. Ah, well. We’re all young once. 

I remember one summer I became an enthusiastic devotee of Alan Watts. I tried to meditate while sitting crosslegged on the floor of the shower, hoping that the blasting water stream would provide some approximation of the spiritual scourge of a cascading waterfall. It’s not my place to judge another person’s spiritual leanings, whatever my opinion on their folly.

But yes, if nothing else, there’s a comfort in the stone’s firmness. I replace it on the desk.

“Jessica, let me show you something. Look at this. What do you think of this?”

“...it’s a wall?”

“Yes. Of course it’s a wall. But the brick, the brick! See its pale redness? The coarse texture? Where do you suppose this came from?”

“A brick-making factory?”

“...technically correct. But not just any factory! From right here! Clay from the Hudson Valley, almost on our doorstep. The red, that’s from iron. No cars in those days, Jessica, it was all horses and wagons. The bricks had to be close. Thousands of workers, billions of bricks. There was a fire, you see, 1835. After that, it was brick all the way, at least before concrete took over. These bricks built Manhattan. It’s all around us - The Puck Building, with its high arches and gilded hobgoblin. The Dakota, with its gabled roof and stone Indian. They’re both nineteenth century, the golden age of the New York brick. And both close to 7th avenue, close to our building. You should visit them one lunchtime, see our living history. Further afield, there’s the Chrysler Building, although it came later. Tallest building in the world, even if just for a year, with a staggering 3 million bricks laid by hand. Imagine.”

“Sounds like a lot of work.”

“Indeed! And that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Work. Good, meaningful, salutary work. When we moved our firm into this skyscraper, I knew I wanted a piece of the history of industry for this office - authentic brick veneer. These bricks came from an old glassworks, as it so happens. A reminder of the workers who came before. And we always think of the workers, don’t we Jessica? It’s…”

“About facilitating their embrace of pathways to be motivated, responsive, productive and fulfilled. Sir.”

“Top marks. My, I went on, didn’t I? I came out here for a reason, didn’t I? Whatever could it have been…”

“Lunch, sir. It’s past twelve.” 

“So it is. Well, hold the fort, Jessica. Hold the fort.”

“Only until one, Mr Sampson. I’m meeting my boyfriend at Tony’s.”

One swift elevator trip later, I am on the streets. 7th Avenue, the aorta of Manhattan, linking Times Square, Central Park, and Broadway. 

As part of my daily ritual, I get a hot dog lathered in onions and mustard from the cart across the road. The vendor often has my frank ready before I’ve finished crossing the road. No words need to be exchanged, this is our routine of many years.

Just as I set my eyes on the hot dog cart, I hear a wet cough nearby.

I follow the sound to an alley next to my building.

Bunched against the wall is a scruffy homeless man. He wears a woolen beanie with the stitching coming undone, and a heavily stained field jacket. As he coughs, he collects his spit in a small jar. The alley contains a not inconsiderable number of similar jars.

I slip my hand into my breast pocket, and feel inside my wallet for a few notes I can give him.

I creep closer, kneel, and reach out my hand to slip him the money.

He grabs my hand. I am taken aback, but his grip is so feeble I don’t bother shaking him off.

He looks at me with yellow eyes. “I have to stay here, so it won’t happen again. You see, don’t you?”

I notice he’s missing one of his legs, the trouser folded up and secured with a safety pin.

“I’ve got some money for you, enough for a hot meal, and a night in a hostel.”

“Can’t go, have to stay here.”

“You’re ill, you need to get somewhere warm. This’ll cover it.”

“If I go, it’ll happen again.”

“What?”

“The sky. It’ll fall.”

Realisation dawns on me. Yes, I’m old enough to remember the day when the sky fell. It shocked us all. This man looks my age. He must have lived through it. Perhaps he’s still living it.

“What’s your name? Noah, you say? We’ll, I’m Teddy. There, we’re on a first name basis. Now, I don’t like the sound of that cough, and it’s only going to get colder on the streets. You’ve got to get yourself somewhere safe and warm. Is there anyone I can call? A relative? A… contact of some kind?”

He starts to cry. “I can’t leave.”

“Is it about your things?”

“It’s the wall. Someone has to hold up the wall.”

Now, I’m not given to lying. I’m not the type of person who could keep their lies straight. Honesty is not just the best policy, it’s the best white paper and best guidelines. But a little white lie… Well, sometimes that oils the gears of commerce and society.

“You’re worried about the wall? Well, tell you what, I’ll take over for a little while. You just take this money, that’s right, hold it tight. You’re familiar with the Olivieri? You are? Excellent, that’s the place to go, they’ll fix you right up. And don’t you worry about things here. I’ve been called a pillar of my field before, I’m just the man for the job. Ah, ha ha, never mind, it was just a little joke. See? My back is firm against the wall. I promise not to budge until you return. That’s right. Off you go.”

Well! So much for my lunchtime walk. But from my spot, I can see the sidewalk. A group of three young Asian people stumble past dragging wheeled duffel bags. Presumably tourists or exchange students from the way they look back and forth from their phones to the buildings. After they pass, I can see that I even have a view of my hot dog cart, an oasis shimmering across the dunes.

I decide to maintain my post, in case Noah comes back to check on my fidelity. He’ll see that I’m a man of my word. I’ll just call this impromptu posture training.

At that moment, I remember I was planning to buy a toy sailboat today. Lucas is just old enough, I’ve been talking to his parents about taking him to the Model Boat Pond at the park. I wonder if he’ll like the Alice in Wonderland statue. I always thought it was charming, but then I loved having that book read to me. I remember being at that statue’s dedication. Now that was a long time ago, I would have been in kindergarten. Won’t do to dwell too much on the march of time, Teddy, no it won’t. But never mind, I can go tomorrow. Or perhaps I can ask Jessica to run an errand. I’ll need to phone the store and make sure they put the right model aside for her. Not that I don’t trust her, but she always does better with a little structure. Or I could just go myself now. Noah hasn’t come back, it’s been a while, I’m sure the coast is clear.

I could go.

But I know what Noah means. The sky may fall.

A little longer won’t hurt. Taking a moment to stop never hurt.

I spend some time watching people walk past. When did everyone in New York start to dress alike? Slacks and shirts, in all the expressive colours of tan known to science. Perfect camouflage for the concrete jungle, perhaps? In my day, at least we weren’t afraid of colour.

Elaine and I are heading to Greenwich Village tonight. I could even walk there, if I want some exercise, it’s a straight line from here. She hates the crowds, having everyone packed into that tiny room. I find it comforting, knowing that we’re all there for jazz. I can’t say it moves me, as such, but I find the patterns interesting. How they all fit together. Like bricks, come to think of it. You can tell where you are in the world from how they lay their bricks. I found that out when I had my veneer installed. A lot of countries have elaborate patterns. It takes time and precision. The American way is faster: lay them straight for most rows, but lay them crossways every five or so rows. Strong, but more efficient. Cheaper. Somehow, that fills me with pride.

At that moment, I see Jessica on the sidewalk. She’s looking into the alley with her smokey panda eyes. Has it been an hour since I left? Our eyes meet. In one eternal moment, her mouth hangs open, as she decides whether to say anything. She walks on.

Nothing like the calculated indifference of the young to tell an old man he’s being a fool.

Burning with shame, I step away from the wall, half thinking some terrible calamity will follow.

Nothing happens. Of course.

Silly old man.

I stride across the street. The hot dog vendor sees me, and by the time I reach him my frank is ready for me. I place a few coins in his hand, thank him, and take a bite.

I don’t know if there’s a Heaven, but mustard and onions come close, especially for a man of routine having a late lunch.

I cross the road back to my building, taking lusty and satisfying bites as I go.

The last of the hot dog vanishes in one final gulp as I reach the doors of my building. I scrunch up the wrapper, and slip into my pocket.

At that moment, something crashes on the sidewalk just behind me, with a cataclysmic boom. 

I turn around, and see the people on the streets scattering. At my feet, I see pale red dust, and fragments I recognise as New York brick.

Then I look up.

The sky is falling.