Bryant Park

Ok, so maybe it was my fault. Maybe I made too much of a fuss over reading out loud in class. Maybe I was just being a bit too Cute about the whole thing, leading Teacher to pass me over. The thing is, I had finally gotten my nerve up after hearing how kind and thoughtful everyone was being to the other readers. I was just beginning to see that maybe going through such a torturous exercise as reading out loud in front of friends and strangers might be beneficial to me. And then, nothing. We get back from break and move on flawlessly to the next assignment. No "So Alex, are you ready to read?" Nothing. Queue close up of balloon deflating. Whooosh.

So here it is. Who needs face-to-face humiliation when we have blogland. For those of you who would rather be kept in suspense until next class, stop reading now.

Bryant Park
Joe leans forward on his elbows, his corduroy cap casting a murky shadow across his face. On the small concrete table in front of him lies a weathered chessboard, painted black and white squares on the cold stone. It is a game he plays every morning with his neighbors. Sometimes, in the winter months, they meet at Sylvia’s diner on 40th street, between 6th and 7th. Sylvia makes them pancakes and mushroom omelets, keeps their brown coffee mugs filled with Folgers. But when the days get longer, and the sun starts streaking the tops of the high-rises, the daily game moves to Bryant Park.

The base of the table is strangely ornate, a stout Roman column bolted firmly to the ground. Joe dons his spring jacket, although the trees in the park have yet to sprout a hint of their tiny green buds that normally usher in warmer days. Joe wears his loose tan jacket with pride, the name of his former employer stitched on the right side of his chest. Joe worked for Cobalt Builders for 35 years, and tells stories of his days building homes for New York wealthiest to anyone who will listen. But today it is Lenny across the board from him. Lenny has already heard all of Joe’s stories. Tales of days spent pouring concrete into large holes dug into the soft ground of upstate New York, or tearing down walls in lofts in Soho, creating even larger residences for celebrities. Joe didn’t care much about the fame or affluence of the people who eventually occupied the spaces he created. He loved the process of building. He loved the process of process itself. One brick on top of another. Slow and careful, a home comes into being.

Lenny sits across from Joe, his arms crossed behind his head. He leans back, the front legs of his metal chair propping up from the ground, creating a small space where he fits his booted feet. He tucks his chin into his chest, studying the board as his partner contemplates his next move. This is a game of patience, of quiet strategy. This is a game played over hours and days and weeks in this sunny corner of Bryant Park, New York City traffic buzzing by on 42nd street.

Lenny’s coffee cup sits dangerously close to the edge of the table. The blue and red Greek letters on it indicate that it is from a bodega across the street, not the Starbucks on the corner where all the kids go. Lenny has been getting his coffee from George at the 42nd street bodega for 22 years. On Fridays, he buys his wife flowers from George, tulips in the spring, white tea roses in winter. George is there every single day, except Sundays, when he goes to church and his daughter in law sells the tourists subway maps and Altoids from their tiny store. His daughter in-law is Muslim, George whispered to Lenny once. Who could have guessed, his son marrying a Muslim. But she is family now, George had said with a quick shrug, and a good worker too. Never leaves the bodega without replenishing the Tic-Tac display or sweeping the leaves back out on the street.

Lenny’s green scarf is tucked into a quilted jacket, worn down to threads on the elbows. The condition of his coat embarrasses his wife, since she is perfectly capable of sewing patches on to get it through another season. But Lenny doesn’t worry about these details. Lenny is a big picture guy. Lenny can listen to the songs of the first birds of summer, note the child on the sidewalk, stooping down to pick a maple leaf from a puddle, and still focus on his opponent’s next move.

Joe and Lenny play chess together on Tuesday mornings. Other days, it might be Sam that challenges Joe to a quick game before his Monday morning AA meeting, or Sid, who brings his grandson every once is awhile when his daughter gets called in for the day shift at the hospital. But today it is Lenny, with his green scarf and deteriorating coat. The men sit across from each other as the early sunlight carves white streaks through the maple trees, and pigeons peck at dead leaves on the ground.

Two young businessmen sit on a bench next to Joe and Lenny. Their identical suits and red ties exude an air of authority, even as rogue curls give away their youth. One holds a paper and the other a Starbucks cup. They do not notice the chess game behind them, their hands animated in zealous conversation. The future of New York and the passing of time, side by side in Bryant Park, Tuesday morning in early Spring.