Synopsis
A Manhattan tale of muscle, muses and madness
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About the Author
James Koenig is no stranger to the world of "Meter is running..." As a singer he has been active in opera, concert, and recital venues. As a writer he has done theatrical works, poetry, performance 'translations', and journalistic pieces for a variety of publications. He is also an active arts advocate and has been knighted by the government of Finland.
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Chapter One
METER RUNNING...
A village, a global village, THE VILLAGE-lofty thoughts were loosely tethered by my chain of consciousness as traffic proceeded up First Avenue like a runner from a prison track team-in stripes-dragging a ball a chain. A surge-then thud. Another sudden surge forward-then an abrupt halt by the short length of chain-pulled back by an iron "man-made" sphere of cruelly imposed limitation. Global significance of the first order. "Man-made" limitation and the attempt to surmount.
New York-now that's a ball and a chain and a cotillion all rolled into one. Centuries of total denial made this place possible. The brief silver patch of East River I glimpse surely runs faster than this yellow river of taxis and tag-alongs. We pass the UN-symbol of hope, world peace and order-I sigh for its task. The place feeds images of UNICEF, Audrey Hepburn, of diplomats and polite threats and a flourish of robed skirts or Armani suits leaving in protest-"No my sovereign territory is being violated." "No MY sovereign territory is" At the moment my sovereign territory is the smoky back seat of Mohammed Kazul Modul Ilotidadis' cab-and the meter is running.
It has been a crazy day-and to tell the truth, I don't actually mind being en route-at least you feel like you're getting somewhere. In fact, sometimes just pretending you're "getting somewhere" puts the wheels in motion and you actually do. We crawl on. Queensboro Bridge-maintains a steely Victorian dignity-a clogged old artery kept open by sheer will, a bit of decoration, and a touch of Crown. (I know old ladies like that whom I admire greatly.)
Beneath her dignity is the interior design of a homeless home-of dirty cardboard-a waterstained and herniated old green chair exposing cotton batting and signs of spring. A scavenged dinner is heating on a fire which smells like the warmth of any wood fire. My mind jumps from an imagined New Yorker style cartoon-Early urban dweller home from the hunt-to a depression era scene. Odd that we have at times romanticized such life as if "free from care," vagabond, enticing. I guess that too is a form of denial. That's a human creature surviving there. That dirty reclining form on a chaise lounge of old mattress and blanket remnant was, as my mother would say, "Once a baby in someone's arms"-full of hope and promise and possibility.
It bothers me to pass them when I walk by. I'm pulled between looking into the pain in their hollow eyes and asking "Who are you-who were you-who are your people-how-why; or "looking past." I don't like that choice. I don't want a button that makes someone invisible. Sometimes smell penetrates self-imposed blindness.
Human-de-human-subhuman-humus.
Friday night in Manhattan.
A block past the camp fire I notice a mirror manufacturer then Chippendales. There's poetic justice in that pairing. It's too early for the "girls" to arrive to rekindle primitive fires of their own while each Narcissus enjoys his bumps and bulges and dazzling smile in the pools of their eyes. A sign reads Gentlemen Welcome After 11. Get 'em while they're hot, guy-Or do you have a significant other in the show? (Somehow I always suspected you were more than training partners.)
We finally turn up 66th Street across the "golden grid," through the park, and on to Lincoln Center. The lobby of the Met is an Ellis Island of faces afloat on a sea of mink and prosperity-a beaded and sequined firmament in a velvet sky. First you genuflect at the coat check and leave a handsome offering for all that you bare. Then you enter the gilded temple of culture. You may think the chandeliers look like something a Las Vegas show girl would wear-(I mean as earrings.)-but this is THE MET. Soon the house lights dim and the earrings are extracted on their cables into the heights of highest heaven.
Silenzio...
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And the meter is running.
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