There is nothing like the calm following a hard rain in New York City.
The rain had followed thirty plus days of torrid heat and unbearable humidity.
Yes, my timing was right on as usual for I had arrived in the Big Apple in the
midst of one of the hottest summers in NYC history. Lucky me.
If you have never spent a summer on the
East Coast or the deep South, well, you don't know what you are missing. I will tell you in one word. ‘SWEAT" I
lost twenty pounds that summer.
Northwest folks are just not cut out for
the avalanche of moisture that cascades down your back, forehead, legs,
everywhere and anywhere. In another chapter I will tell you about my interview
at one of the leading hotels in the world and what I looked like that afternoon
after my first subway trip and walk through muggy Manhattan.
Finally, we had a night of refreshing rain. I ran outside my Bronx apartment to cool down after a one
hundred degree day. The sound of the rain came like the sound of the dinner
bell calling the workers of a farm field to eat after a day of plowing under
the Midwest sun. It was like the joyful, melodious ditty of the ice cream truck
coming to your neighborhood .It
was even better than the bell sounding at Wallace Junior High after sitting
through Mrs. Stock’s home room.
Well, you get the picture. It was a
welcome sound.
Of course, going outside at night in the
Bronx is not for the faint of heart and neither is it for anybody with a brain
that works. I fell somewhere in between these two criteria. I didn't care. I just wanted
some relief from the torrential downpour of sweat.
As I joyfully bounded down the five
flights of stairs like a kid on Christmas morning, I knew where I was heading.
The Stoop. The place where all New Yorkers congregate to socialize, smoke, drink coffee, and contemplate their navels.
I decided on a place about half way down
the stairs. Not being totally brain dead (see criteria above) I could get the
relief I craved as well as a position that left me free to run like crazy if
one of the South Bronx gangs were patrolling Gerard Avenue looking for an easy
mark. (See definition of a kid from Wallace, Idaho sitting alone in the South
Bronx at night)
Lighting up my Kool King , I inhaled, breathed in the semi fresh
air. I closed my eyes for a moment and reflected on the fact that life was okay.
I didn't see him or hear him coming, but suddenly there he was, sitting down
beside me, my worst fear come true, a Bronx street punk.
It was too late to run. My heart pounding,
my legs shaking, and the proverbial galaxy of pictures of my entire life
flashing before my eyes, I turned to meet whatever fate destiny had assigned
me.
To be continued.
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