I lived in Manhattan in the early 1990's, studying at Yeshiva University, a largely Orthodox institution, which combines Judaic and secular studies. I attended YU's Bernard Revel Graduate School of Jewish Studies, where I pursued a Master's Degree in Bible. (I can still recall an acquaintance's reaction when he heard of my decision: "Oh, yeah, I hear that IBM is hiring a lot of Bible students these days.")
As many readers will know, much of Manhattan is a grid, with the Avenues running from north to south, and the Streets running the width of the island, from east to west. This regular structure is a veritable dream come true for anyone who has a poor sense of direction.
For your convenience (or due to some street namer's lack of imagination), both the Streets and several of the Avenues are numbered. The Avenue numbers rise as you go west; Street numbers as you go north. A random sampling: Times Square is at 42nd Street. Lincoln Center is at 62nd St. The 92nd St. Y is at, well, 92nd St., and Columbia University is at 116th St. And way, way up, at 185th St., is Yeshiva University, in the area known as Washington Heights. I was once told that adjacent Streets are all equidistant from each other, and that the distance between every 20 Streets is exactly one mile, which I don't think is completely accurate, but is respectably close.
Much of NYC night life takes place in lower Manhattan, and it was quite a trek to get down there from the Great White North of Washington Heights. First of all, there was the walk from the campus, at Washington Heights's east edge, to the subway station, at the west. Then a descent by elevator into the 7th gate of Hell, and a long wait on a filthy, smelly platform. And then, la pièce de résistance, a 7-mile NOISY subway ride.
Returning to the campus often presented a dilemma for me. On the one hand, after an outing, tired, late at night, the thought of that long voyage back north in a seedy subway car, followed by a ten-plus-minute walk through even seedier neighborhoods, was not particularly inviting. On the other hand, the alternative, a cozy ride in a taxi crab was an expenditure that this poor student could not indulge in lightly. For the most part, frugality won the day.
But one Saturday night, feeling particularly exhausted, I splurged and hopped into a cab. It was a street somewhere in the 30's I believe. I told the driver my destination, way up in the tundra, and off we went.
As mentioned above, the distance between Streets was 1/20 of a mile. I should mention that there is a traffic light at each Street. You could get a few green lights in a row, but every few streets, you could expect to hit a red light; you might do a bit better if there was less traffic. In fact, I once heard that the traffic signals are timed so as to discourage speeding: the faster you went, the more red lights you would encounter, while travelling at the speed limit would maximize the number of green lights that would greet you.
Now on this particular night, there was very little traffic. So the first few streets, we were met with green lights. Nice. After a dozen consecutive green lights, I found myself thinking that this was most pleasant. But after 25 straight green lights, I found myself thinking that this was something out of the ordinary.
60th St. Green Light. 70th St. Green Light. 80th St. Green Light. By this time, I felt that we were entering a new zone of existence. The response I received from my pilot when I asked him if he had noticed that we hadn't hit even one red light yet confirmed to me that he and I were of one mind. We exchanged few words after that, not wanting to mar the magic of the moment with mundane words, or even, worse, jinx our streak. And anyway, the form of communication we were sharing transcended mere words.
For we were Lewis and Clark. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Thelma and Louise. Captain Kirk and Mister Spock. 90th St. Green Light. 100th St. Green Light. 110th St. Green Light. The thrilling excitement from knowing that you are, impossibly, defying the very laws of physics. Boldly going where no man has gone before.
120th St. Green Light. 130th St. Green Light. 140th St. Green Light. Yes! Yes! Yes! By now, we were experiencing a mind-blowing mixture of elation, as we broke through one barrier of existence after another, and nerve-wracking apprehension, for each traffic light we encountered could easily be that dreaded bloody crimson, signaling bitter defeat.
150th St. Green Light. 160th St. Green Light. 170th St. Green Light. The tension by now was roaring in our ears. We were weightless in time and space, with no precedent to guide us, as we entered hitherto unexperienced realms of reality. It was all we could do to hang on by the skin of our teeth, and maintain some semblance of composure.
The home stretch. Just a few streets left and we've completed our odyssey. Another green light. And another. Now we were Sandy Koufax in the bottom of the ninth, just one strike away from a perfect game. Would we succeed in our quest for perfection, or would we fall off the precipice, as so many before us had, in pernicious ignominy?
185th Street. Destination Attained. Mission Accomplished. Flushed from the excitement, drenched in sweat, my pilot and I exchange beatific grins. Time will not diminish this milestone of human achievement. Ours is a feat that will inspire others to greatness for generations to come. As I get out of the cab, and turn to hand my brother-in-arms the fare, he waves the money off. "You know that I could never accept that. What we experienced tonight was a reward in itself, far beyond the pettiness of filthy lucre. Don't you understand? We've made history. Thank you. I will never forget you." And rode off into the moonlight.
No comments:
Post a Comment