NYC – Poe on the Streets

Jesus, it’s freezing. 20 Degrees. I’m not used to this – I’m from the west coast. For the hundredth time I ask myself what the hell am I doing here? Who am I fooling? This is New York, for Christsakes. They are going to see right through me. I don’t belong here. This is dangerous.

I meet my friends; we’re walking to some trendy restaurant in the East Village. And it’s got to be colder now…I mean, what is 20 degrees, anyway? It’s just a measurement, right? I mean, they could just say it’s freeze-your-ass cold; that’s what it really is. Amazingly, people are all over – they’re wearing hats. They’re wearing huge gloves. They’re not fooling around. No, they’re New Yorkers. They’re not some transplant that shouldn’t be here.

My friend John, who I haven’t seen in many years, stops on the street. He’s found a pile of books. My friends all start digging through them – irregardless that it’s freeze-your-ass-cold outside.

And I’m thinking this is nuts; I mean, who cares about some books…garbage. We don’t have time for this. Hypothermia could set in any minute. When you’re climbing Everest you don’t stop to read the labels on the discarded air bottles. Time is of the essence. We could die.

But I’m cool – I remain quiet. I am the foreigner. Maybe this is some sort of New York thing; always check the garbage. I don’t want to blow it.

John finds the collected work of Edgar Allen Poe. Not too icy. As we get to the trendy restaurant, we, of course, have to wait. John tells us the story of The Cask of Amontillado – he had to memorize it as a kid. He tells how Fortunato gets trapped in a tunnel, buried alive, and John reads us the last lines.

And, of course, it all connects – it’s a beautiful moment, as John reads a classic, from a dead local, as we wait in a trendy restaurant, finally warm…everything makes sense. The streets are the collection agent of New York. Rich, poor, you have to walk the streets. It’s fast, it connects every thing, all people, all moments. And this is the ultimate in recycling, the ultimate in connecting the dots, connecting the past to the present – as didn’t Poe freeze to death in New York?

But nothing is that perfect; he actually died in Baltimore. In October. But whatever.

The next day my friend Vaune finds World War II picture books with a definitive bent on Nazi fascination. Again, they are in a discarded pile on the street. Of course, we didn’t hold onto them very long. I mean, it’s one thing to relate to Poe burying someone alive, but quite another to become fascinated with Nazis.

Discarded Literature Searching

If you are interested in the economically responsible and random browsing of curbside literature, you should aim for residential neighborhoods – so not Times Square, or in the middle of Central Park. Many things can be found in the street…of course, avoid serious dumpster diving or anything too gooey.

That’s just not sexy.

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