OH, THE LIGHTS. At night you need shades. Epileptics beware. These things sparkle: teeth and marquees, wristwatches and new earrings, the occasional soul. Lost in all these gleaming things, how is this last item to stand out. If only those imbeciles in the double-decker tour bus would stop waving at him, they’re fanning his insecurities. Against the light what are we but soft meat, held up to X rays and see-through, all weakness and defect on display. Peepworld. Playpen. Pleasure Palace. The famous degradations still pack them in after all these years. This show will never close. No audition required. These new zoning laws, it’s been quite a blow to the Kleenex industry, lemme tell ya. That dude in overalls shoves a mop nonetheless. Sixteen-millimeter movies made for basement projectors have been digitally formatted for home entertainment centers. She prefers the term Adult Film Actress. All the unlucky orphans have fan clubs and websites. And where are all the pimps of yesterday, our assorted Slims and Big Daddys. Long since muscled out by better, more consolidated hustlers, with their stables of trademarked animals and franchise stores. Publicly traded prostitutes stake out corners, broker soft caress of fifty-fifty cotton-poly. How much for a half and half. Instead of anything-you-want, all-you-can-eat in the booths of the cozy theme restaurant. It’s better this way. Johns travel in packs, in family herds, with clipped coupons from travel agents. It’s better this way, plus they pay taxes and really where would you put a Cadillac anyway with these new Byzantine parking regulations.
THE MOST HARDENED criminals adopt airs. That’s Dr. Sleazebag to you. Everything tamed and safe. It’s not the way it used to be, she tells her friends from out of town. Smiling as she leads this expedition. Longer she lives here, the more vulgarities to describe to and lord over those who have been here less long. Bonus points if you can name what was in that storefront three failed restaurants ago: a restaurant. Slim plywood stands sentry where buildings used to be, shepherds abyss. Post No Bills. They Post Bills. Check out rubble, cheer cranes hoisting girders. One day he’ll see a wrecking ball swing or see the old beast implode in dust or at least hear a loud noise from a couple blocks away and know some lovely destruction is going on nearby. They secretly relish the violence done to their neighborhoods and old haunts because after they’re gone they can brag about witness to the heyday. To complain is to belong, possess property. Not rent for once.
KEEP ON the path and you will not see the ruined people, so do not stray from the path. Discount electronics and discount lives. No Money Down. The more accurate signs, the ones advertising Misery and Doom, only get plugged in after midnight. Let’s drink in the Old Man Bar. The ancient masters are dead and their secrets were buried with them, so we will never see neon like that again. You are sorely missed. A hush falls across the room when someone says, Liver Transplant. That line of business, you know how it is, feast or famine. He said he wanted to take her photograph, had connections, but only after she makes it down to the street with half of what she went up with will she feel safe. Do not underestimate the will it takes to submit to cliché. Follow the script. It’s all make-believe. Like happy endings.
HE DOESN’T remember the exact address but is sure he’ll recognize it when he gets there. Old salts list what is bygone. The famous producer has fallen on hard times, the loyal members of his troupe nowhere to be seen because every check he writes these days bounces higher than skyscrapers. No one answers his ad for Beloved Times Square Characters. The sailors on shore leave have shipped out. The cancan girls are on penicillin. The bottom-bill boxers with their punchdrunk epiphanies have retired to condos in Boca, who can blame them really, the mild winters after all. Hair tonic and stogies, peanut shells and be-bop, these were the props of the most famous extravaganzas and where do you find them these days. Lament disappearances. Try to light a candle but the match keeps going out. So drafty in these old theaters. As if the old theaters still stand.
SPEAKEASY CITY, major manufacturer of special knocks, codewords, secret ways in. It’s been years but be patient. You’ll stumble upon it soon. They look in nooks and crannies. The seven-dollar sirloin. Those ribbons she likes. The shop devoted to the sale, upkeep and cultural lore of porkpie hats. Do not be deceived by these new and plastic signs. Need the addresses enough and you will find them. Even landlords earn their wings from time to time. The little store that specializes in Second Acts In American Lives will not budge. It’s mostly custom work but the shop doesn’t advertise, word of mouth suffices. Right next door is the travel agency that only sells One-Way Tickets Out Of Town. They never have any repeat customers, nonetheless enjoy a steady clientele, a weary stream of the fleeing, the foundering, the failed. These shops have been next door for years and will remain because there is a need. Fix exteriors and repave, spackle down and gussy up, but impossible to hide is true nature. Some things cannot be demolished. Some things reach down and become bedrock. You’ll stumble upon it soon because it is important. It’s been a while but if he keeps looking he’ll find it, the store where he got what he needed that time and look there it is, hasn’t changed a bit after all these years and the guy behind the counter remembers his name.
THIS CITY is reward for all it will enable you to achieve and punishment for all the crimes it will force you to commit. It’s as if she figured out a puzzle as she stood at the corner waiting for the light to change, look at her face, smiling at nothing we can see. At this pure and flickering light. They always feel a bit awkward when they figure out this place. Stalled at the corner, avoided by crowds as if prophets or homeless. Avoid them as you would any angel who brushed against you. The loneliness is the worst, because this knowledge is something that cannot be shared, only suffered. Just as well. Why should anyone else have it easy. Spoken like a true New Yorker.
JFK
IT’S TIME TO GO.
Everything’s packed. All the necessary documentation is secure in pockets and pouches. The time passed so quickly. Take a moment to look back and regret all the things you didn’t get to do, the places you didn’t get to visit. What you did not see. Promise yourself, Maybe next time.
Assuming it will still be here when you finally return.
Sometimes things disappear.
The airport is one of many conveniently located exits. In the beautiful terminals you can get to anywhere in the world. The names of carriers sort them by destination. Shuffle along and do as you’re told. Just a matter of time until you are home.
Take your seat.
When you talk about this trip, and you will, because it was quite a journey and you witnessed many things, there were ups and downs, sudden reversals of fortune and last-minute escapes, it was really something, you will see your friends nod in recognition. They will say, That reminds me of, and they will say, I know exactly what you mean. They know what you are talking about before the words are out of your mouth.
Talking about New York is a way of talking about the world.
Wake up. With a shudder finally kicked out of the dream. Impossibly this gigantic creature has taken off. This unlikely gargoyle with impossible wings. How we flutter sometimes. Settle in for the journey and forget. Please forget. Try to forget bit by bit, it will be easier on you. Leave it behind. Then the plane tilts in its escape and over the gray wing the city explodes into view with all its miles and spires and inscrutable hustle and as you try to comprehend this sight you realize that you were never really there at all.
The author would like to thank his friends and neighbors for all their help in getting this thing together: Nicole Aragi, Nicholas Dawidoff, Richard Nash, Tina Pohlman, Bill Thomas, and Kevin Young. These pages would be blank without the love and support of Natasha Stovall.
Photos of Brooklyn Bridge and “13” © Thinkstock/Wonderfile.
Photos of subway sign, taxi, park bench, traffic, and jet
© Royalty-free/Corbis. Photos of city at night and reflection of Empire
State Building by Andrea Sperling, Getty Images/digitalvision.
Photo of aerial view of New York City by
Steve Cole, Getty
Images/Photodisc. Photo of people walking by Spike Mafford,
Getty Images/Photodisc. Photo of Coney Island by S. Meltzer, Getty
Images/Photolink.
COLSON WHITEHEAD
THE COLOSSUS OF NEW YORK
Colson Whitehead was born and raised in New York City. He is the author of The Intuitionist and John Henry Days and is a recipient of a Whiting Award and a MacArthur Fellowship. He lives in Brooklyn.
ALSO BY COLSON WHITEHEAD
The Intuitionist
John Henry Days
FIRST ANCHOR BOOKS EDITION, OCTOBER 2004
Copyright © 2003 by Colson Whitehead
Anchor Books and colophon are registered trademarks of
Random House, Inc.
“City Limits” first appeared, in a slightly different form,
in The New York Times Magazine.
Photo credits are on page 161.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the
Doubleday edition as follows:
Whitehead, Colson, 1969–
The colossus of New York: a city in thirteen parts /
Colson Whitehead.—1st ed.
p. cm.
1. New York (N.Y.)—Description and travel. 2. New York (N.Y.)—
Social life and customs. 3. Whitehead, Colson,
1969—Homes and haunts—New York (State)—New York.
I. Title.
F128.55.W54 2003
818’.5403—dc21 2002041691
www.anchorbooks.com
www.randomhouse.com
eISBN: 978-0-307-42828-8
v3.0
The Colossus of New York Page 8