Natural History

It was Wednesday and I met my girlfriend uptown at the doctor. Stop right there. It’s not that kind of story.

The city has a way of stiffing one’s neck to the point that requires a professional intercession. The doc said you need to release some tension. That kind of instruction works against what we’re taught when we’re young. Keeping your head down and working hard makes for a rigid neck. We left the office.

I took my girl up to Harlem for some fried chicken. (Not that kind of story either.)

She wanted Shake Shack; it was closer, but where’s the release in that? We took the train to 125th and went west, looked funny on the street. It was autumn crisp on the verge of raining winter, the collywobbles from being hemmed in by weather this time of year is like practicing circles in a parking lot before you hit the autobahn. Whatever that means.

There wasn’t a point. Nothing happened. She had chicken and waffles, I had chicken with sweet potatoes and mac-n-cheese. We swiped a bottle of hot sauce when we thought no one was looking. We walked down to 110th and entered the park. The release is when you’re walking nowhere special and you can loiter in your steps a little; the fire escapes resemble monkey bars or Venetian balconies or urban chaff, the passersby change (like the leaves this time of year) into ballasts that steady your curiosity.

Five years into a city is different than two. The wonder is different; if it’s there at all. The truths harden (yes like a neck, but like an artery too).

Inside the park the rack of the season had almost finished its turning. Almost. Fall was in a hospice. It was good in that way. Resigned to something. At peace.

There was a lot to see. We circled around the reservoir. The high school track team circled faster. The kids gathered leaves; the tourists were wedged between the retaining gates like take-out menus from exotic cuisines (or perhaps just like tourists). We finished our jaunt at 81st, walking out from the release. There was a museum across the street. They call it natural history.