3-6-9 / Friday, September 26, 2003, 12: 02 AM, New York, NY
Less than twelve hours from it I am still devising alternatives for attaching two cameras to my body. The news on the radio voices the city’s request for citizens to report any suspicious activities during Rosh Hashanah, so I opt for concealing the equipment in two black bags I sew for the purpose. As much as I refuse to believe that 9/11 has changed the world, I am kindly reminded of my Lebanese lineage. If my walk is to proceed as planned, the cameras or me must not to draw unnecessary attention.
Saturday, September 27, 11:55 AM: It is actually 12:05. I rush to leave my apartment trying my best to make it downstairs before noon. I remember that although my watch is ten minutes fast, my slow descent in the 1930s elevator in my building will resemble a time travel experience. 15 floors divided by 5 minutes equals 20 seconds. If the machine’s mechanism operates as expected I should be in the lobby on time.
4 Cardinals: Invited by Alexander del Re to be part of 4 Cardinals, a world-wide performance event that took place on Sept 27, 2003, 12 noon - 9 PM, and for which artists performed simultaneously around the clock, I proposed to attach one video camera to my chest and one to my back to record a nine-hour walk throughout New York City with no fixed destination, archiving the distance traveled, the stretch to be traveled and the act of traveling on two DV tapes. No maps, cell phone, eating or talking allowed during the duration my journey.
The Upper West Side, a few minutes past noon: I have no problem joining the crowd outside. It is in fact easy to follow a father pushing a stroller and let him open the way for me through the shoppers in search for the perfect peach at West Side Market. Young students pour in and out of Columbia’s gates and, without strollers to follow, I am on my own to find which route to take. From 116th to 130th St., Broadway becomes less populated, almost deserted, so I turn the cameras off to enjoy a minute of quiet before reaching the ecstatic discount world of El Mundo Discount Stores. Once there, I walk as if running late for an appointment, weaving my way through CD peddlers and women fishing bed sheets on sale out of big canvas crates, not realizing that although I am going somewhere, I have nowhere to get to. I make it to 145th St and Riverside Drive in less than one hour, traversing a street flea market on 155th St. before heading further into Washington Heights. The first hours of journeying through Manhattan, the city retains a sharp resemblance to the place I have known for over a decade. I notice I am looking at it from afar, thus having the feeling of not been seeing. I comb the city’s streets in the guise of a ghost.
2:30 PM, The island stays behind: I find myself sharing a seedy plaza across the George Washington Bridge with an older man. He sits quietly besides a broken memorial as if memorizing in his own memories. Two children in a nearby basketball court shoot an orange ball into the sky. A few raindrops fall. I look for the umbrella in my bag, but instead carry a mental inventory of what I have brought along: an unlimited Metrocard, two dollars and thirty cents, my apartment keys, a jacket, a bottle of seltzer water, a camera, a non-driver’s license ID, an Oxford HMO card, an expired ID from the Dominican Consulate, and a pack of chewing gum. Once in the Bronx, New York seems very big, so vast. Far away. The time goes so slow. The weather plays “I rain/I rain not.” I turn the cameras on “rec.” before leaving the plaza and continuing to go somewhere. And there I hear voices, and the beat of drums. They produce a religious cha-cha that tries to spice the bleak afternoon as much as it can. A middle-aged Puerto Rican man proclaims from a street corner that, “If you don’t go to church, we bring church out into the streets.” He addresses a non-existent audience. Two boys play chasing each other on bicycles. “Blessed be Jesus.” Amen. The Cha-cha resumes. I move on.
Around 4 PM: I continue to walk east on a shopping strip, all the way down to the Major Degan. The expressway’s landscape provides me with plenty of asphalt to look at, with a broken tour bus, and with a Crabapple tree near a public green space. The tiny apples are difficult to see but hard to resist. After several hours walking I have an urge for food. Overcoming remorse, I detach 6 of the tiny fruit from a branch and pop them in my mouth, chew them, suck their juice and spit the coarse pulp out on the grass. I regain the necessary strength to follow the sidewalk along the road. I figure I’ll go as far as it goes, which is not very far. The sidewalk’s abrupt end at a weedy cul-de-sac forces me to change route, going instead in the direction of a pedestrian bridge. Up there, the wind blows a $10 bill on the pavement. I grab it as fast as I can, stashing it in my right pocket. No one sees me. The cameras are on. I hold my cargo tight and continue to walk. Now I begin to feel lonely.
4 PM, still in the Bronx: 4 p.m. arrives at another plaza. This one with beautiful derelict Victorian fountains attesting for its turn of the century past. With time to kill, I spend 20 minutes watching an unhoused man pick at his scabs, go through his belongings and talk to people I am unable to see. Pedestrians pass by, but he doesn’t seem to see them. And they don’t see him neither; nor me. I begin to feel tired. Lost. The city no longer retains a crisp image and I wonder how the two cameras I carry close to my waist are witnessing it. I look around wondering where I am. Yankee Stadium emerges in the cityscape as a big cooking pot. A game boils inside of this place. I follow the noises that come from within the structure and walk toward the glorious Grand Concourse to be comforted by its familiarity. I’m tired. At 4:15 I sit again at another small plaza, when a woman gets closer and closer to me. “F*cking assh*les,” she mutters, together with other insults, then gets even closer. “What time is it?” With her face an inch or so away from my face, I have no choice but to tell her that it is almost 5 o’clock. I ask myself for forgiveness for breaking one of my vows.
5 PM, A sign of Redemption: Addresses start to mix in my head. Confused of where I am and where I have been, I search for a marker. I find 3rd Avenue. You have been here. I find Youngland. I have been there. The Grand Concourse reappears not long after that. I look at places where I could have been before. I find places where I’m sure I have never been and where I might never be again. A two-story brick building catches my eyes. The first floor belongs to a Halal store; the second story houses The Blood of Jesus church. I shift the position of my heel in one of my shoes. There is a blister in it. I take a long break on the post office steps not knowing where to go next.
7 PM, Dreaming of Papa John’s: Night drops by at 7 and finds me still wondering. This time around the Concourse and 167th St. I have to struggle not to give in and eat something. Every hole-in-the-wall eatery opens up the possibility of a gourmet experience. Even a Papa John’s. I remain determined not to ingest anything, comforting my hunger with the smells I manage to catch as I pass by many restaurants. I travel north to sit on a bench at a busy street intersection. Another older man and I become accomplices in killing time. He, until his awaited return to the Dominican Republic, and me until the conclusion of my journey nowhere. Cold, hungry, I listen to the elder’s conversation with a man who now sits with us on the top of the bench. I pretend to look blankly at the black sky even though it is obvious that I can’t spot one single star, and let the two men entertain me with their dialogue. The younger one will be working a double shift on Sunday. The older one has a farm, likes cows, bought a truck and is leaving the US soon. I am leaving the bench now.
The Bronx in the dark, 8 PM: As in trance, I watch the Cross-Bronx Expressway from above, my eyes fixated on the trail of lights that cars leave behind before disappearing from my sight. A loud hello brings my attention back to the Grand Concourse. I find Yoyo’s face, an acquaintance, in the night. I wave at her and see her disappear in the dark; child in hand. I stay put, but then move on.
8:35 to 9 PM: It is getting colder. I proceed to sit on a bench at 176th St., just by the B and D trains entrance. Across the street a Mr. Softee truck plays a lullaby distracting my aching body, but waking up my hungry stomach. I promise myself an ice cream sandwich. I promise myself not to break my vow. I promise myself not to walk back to home, but let the subway map my way back to Manhattan.
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