Junkies, Decadence and OCD in Manhattan: Part I

Where else can I walk down the street behind a woman with mesmerizing legs wearing six hundred dollar Manolo Blahniks, surrounded by the smell of piss and listening to my personal soundtrack of the City. Lets be fair here, Jersey is far more offensive to the olfactory system. Hypnotic sounds of Cocteau Twins melting in my ears as I pass the characters in my view.

We reach the concierge desk and are greeted as Marceau is directed to take the bags to the seventh floor. A lovely suite with a view of a wall of windows across 31st Street. With a Euroswank bathroom suitable for a Helmut Newton photo shoot. Below us a fire house. A very busy fire house. Across 7th Avenue sits MSG. To the streets we go.

As we venture up Broadway to Times Square, my oldest son Ethan says without hesitation, "Dad, that guy isn't wearing pants." Not shocked, very matter of fact. I turn to look and confirm that the man was indeed not wearing pants. A blazer with a colorful logo tshirt underneath and naked below. Sensible hard shoes, though.

"Ethan, welcome back to Manhattan."

The boys are very comfortable in large cities. That pleases me greatly as their father.

Amidst the chaos of Times Square a dull hum overcomes me. It is the sound of a living city. I miss that sound sometimes but at the same time cherish I the quiet of my own neighborhood. Simply my presence is a passionate plea to suck me into the hum and feel as though I am giving back and not just taking from this creature. We hit some shops, big brands with great lighting. They don't interest me as much as the small shops elsewhere in the City, but it needed to be done. The boys had been programmed by excessive advertising influences, softly beaten into their unusually large heads.

Slices! We need slices, NOW! I see Ray's a half a block away. We head straight for the counter and order our usual. Times Square Pizza in Penfield is more expensive than this shop that is actually in Times Square. Go figure. I can hardly wait to inhale the goodness of a real slice. It was as it should be, perfect in its proportions and the snap of the crust when folded properly sent me to a happy place.

All that was to change in an instant.

The small shop had five of six tiny tables and a few bar seats at a makeshift counter. The man across from us left a bag hanging on the back of his seat as he left. A fellow customer, shouted clearly, "Sir, your bag!" No response. Again, "Sir, your bag!" No response. I pipe in with a loud "HEY!, You forgot your bag!" The man kept moving to the door. People are getting up myself included and continue yelling with the common courtesy gone. The patrons and staff begin to make a move toward the exit. To this point since the man left his table has lasted about twenty seconds. This is New York, this is Times Square, this man will not respond. The sense that this was unusal was clear to all within the first ten seconds. I did not sense fear amongst the group, only action. Never have I seen a place begin to clear out that quickly.

The man was indeed absent minded when he finally responded to the yelling and recieved some more from the locals for his repeated failures to so much as turn his head. You see, it dawned on me after the fact. The bag was thought to be a bomb.

I thought to myself, "Ethan, welcome to the 21st Century." Next stop the Federal Reserve Bank.