This one details the night I slept on the roof of a midtown Manhattan hotel. Free room and board, just off Times Square. Hard to find, even in 1993.
"This is a story which must begin in the middle and maybe spin backwards or maybe not. It might not finish or even really begin.Right now, I am looking down on the buildings which border the north side of 47th street. If I turn to my left, I get a twinkling view of the West side, the Hudson river and New Jersey beyond. Over my shoulder is the 10 story Milford plaza sign.
As I write this, at least 5 jets are slipping through the illuminated haze of the night sky. Bagpipes echo up from Times Square, almost lost in the thunder of traffic and the ventilation systems of the high rises surrounding us. My view is 23 stories down.
Because I had only about $150 total for this late summer visit to NYC, I decided that I could not pay for a night's accommodation in Manhattan. So, I decided to sleep on the roof of a West 47th street hotel.
I had stayed here during my first visit to NY in 1990. At that time, I discovered that the rooftop door was never locked and provided a wonderful view of the city surrounding it.
I walked into the hotel with the confidence of a guest, my sleeping bag tied tight and tucked under my arm. I was friendly to the doormen and went straight to the elevator bank.
I was the only one going to the 23rd floor. Luckily for me, there was a Maid trolley parked in the hallway. I grabbed a pillow, soap, 2 towels, a toothbrush and toothpaste.
If it rains tonight, I am screwed.
On the street again.
I can feel the heat of passing taxi cabs on my chins. I am standing on the thin point of the southern traffic island in Times Square. I like the rainbow coloured electricity the ads pour out. Illumination from every side. The Coke bottle stands at 47th street, its corporate nemesis Pepsi at the opposite end of the square. Camel, Maxell, Sony, Sbarro, JVC, Fuji, Suntory. Taxi headlights blur white, then red as they speed south on Broadway.
There is a guy sitting near me in a flowerbed. He is drinking a McDonalds coke and mumbling to himself. Now, he's got a disposable razor. He dips it in the coke and attempts to shave. Every so often, he runs his hand over his face to see what he's missed.
A cabbie shouts out as he passes."Don't ever forget me." A busload of high school kids stops at the light. Every window is filled with gaping little mouths. They wouldn't even notice me.
Jay Leno's gigantic mug smirks above us all. I hope his show fails soon. He just isn't funny.
An ambulance tires to bust through a snarl of traffic. It mounts the curb and slithers past the jam.
The exhaust here is thick. The hot, combusted air makes me thirsty.
I walk to the closest bodega and buy a Bud for $1.50. I return to the square and drink it from a brown bag. The bum is bleeding from the face. Will Coke stop him bleeding?
Shit, this city in late August is horribly stifling. I have to use the toilet but I have no room. No valid right to a toilet in this city. It just turned 11pm in NY.
I piss on the street, like everyone else does.
At 12:47am, I return to the eagle's nest. The Goldstar sign sends shimmering, jigsaw light onto the building at 47th North.
Directly across the street, I have a perfect view of people in their apartments. Many of them are still up. One guy is wrapped in only a towel and smoking on his balcony. Several are watching TV. One woman is making food. One is mostly nude and wandering around her bedroom. One seems to be folding clothes.
A jackhammer has started down below. The city craftsmen work around the clock to upkeep the infrastructure of Manhattan. And below them, the Sandhogs keep the streets from sagging onto themselves. At every level, like an ant hive, this city thrives 24/7.
I walked into some porno shops tonight. They are most concentrated on 42nd street, but also line 7th Av back for a couple of blocks. In the bigger establishments, with booths, you can see men's feet as they masturbate to 72 channels of porn. There's always a guy close by with a mop and bucket. What a job. What a city.
I count 10 people still awake in the apartments across from me. They are night hawks.
I don't want to sleep yet. The roof is tarred with gravel. I feel it right through my sleeping bag. I should have learned from the bums and acquired some cardboard.
The city roar is loud. Will I even sleep tonight.
The man in a towel has come out for another smoke. I wonder if he can see me here?
7:15am. Sept. 1-1993.
I have a perfect daytime view over Duffy Square where tourists line up for half price theatre tickets. I am sipping a large, McDonald's orange juice and chewing on my second street purchased begal and cream cheese. 75 cents each. I love the morning begal vendors in NY.
Sleeping on the roof wasn't terrible. The worst aspect was shifting beyond the sleeping bag and grinding onto the tarred gravel.
I was in the square around 6am. It was dead but for the red suited cleaners.
Hurricane Emily was supposed to hit NY. Thankfully, it didn't. I would have been a sitting duck on the hotel roof. But today, the sky was grey and the humidity felt like rain. I assumed the downpour was approaching.
I hid my things behind a piece of plywood at the top of the stairwell to the roof.
I sat on a bench in Duffy Square. Beside me was a homeless man. He was a fat, bearded black man, with a huge cart full of empty cups, bags, containers and scavenged artifacts. I started a conversation and he proved to be very polite.
He described New York with this sentence:
"I would sum up New York as horrific, awesome and devastating."
Who could find a truer word?
He said "Guys like me, we'll end up in Potter's Field. No one cares about us."
And sadly, he's right.
8:51am. Broadway and Actors Square:
I am dirty and have worn the same clothes for 3 days. And I slept on a hotel roof last night. I have hidden my bedding in a hotel stairway and the rest of my possessions I carry in a plastic shopping bag. I feel homeless today.
9:30am, Central Park South:
From where I sit, I see at least ten people asleep on the grass.
I just passed a clean looking couple asleep with white sheets and pillows. They must have come across Central Park south from their hotel with their bedding for the thrill of sleeping in Central park.
The locals are jogging, walking their dogs, reading the NY Times.
From where I sit, I can see a bum washing up in a drinking fountain.
I walk a little further into the park and come across a woman wrapping her few possessions in a blanket. She looks like a monster from the Saturday matinee. Her spine is horribly bent and she wears a dirty yellow dress which looked like it was made from a length of theatre curtain. She mumbles to herself and rubs her head. Her hair is in tufts, likely from the compulsive rubbing. Her shoes are worn through and she carries a piece of cardboard.
She truly resembles the Idiot Savant Salvatore, played by Ron Pearleman in The Name of the Rose. But that was make up and acting. This is real.
I imagined meeting Woody Allen walking his dog. Instead I found this wretched woman, rooting around in the mulch for grubs.
This is the wanderer's approach to NY.
The police swoop in and arrest a man not ten feet in front of me. He is cuffed and dragged to a waiting cruiser.
Later, at around 80th and Central Park West, I saw another arrest. The suspect looked a little roughed up and was covered in leaves and grass. This time, a middle aged New Yorker started a sidewalk rant. He was well dressed, with a nice haircut and trimmed moustache, wearing pale pants and loafers.
"Get out the camcorders. Capture all the blood. Little Bobby loves blood, little Suzy is too young, but she will learn to love it too. We will teach her to lick it up. Come one and come all and see the show. I am Hitler, I am Stalin, I am Bobbie Kennedy. You are dictators. You are mice. The air is full of your lies. I can tell you work for the CIA. The only truth you can tell is to a stranger on the street, because if you tell your neighbor, they will turn you in and you will be skinned alive. Communists and Fascists can no longer be blamed for the turning tide. Do not blame blacks or Natives or Jews or Muslims. It's now the musicians. Blame the musicians. If you don't believe me, count the garbage barges floating past on the river. The graffiti is your cave painting, the politicians are the donkeys. The Scapegoat will be used and then burned in a memory hole. Eisenstein, Eisenhower and Einstein, do you think they were accidental? Today a guy can get naked and fuck a girl 6 times and say I love you. But actors are full of shit. Richard Gere naked, Harrison Ford with no clothes on. Gregory Peck nude? Nobody can act anymore anyway. I'm a book man. But I am reminded of the greatest instance of Communist Propaganda ever filmed in America...it's Vivian Leigh crying out 'I'll never be hungry again' just before Intermission so it hits you in the forehead like a bullet. And of course, Andy Warhol's art. Communist au complete. But you know, I would rather have a fascist for a surgeon."
Yes, that is a tiny, tiny part of New York as it used to exist, for me, the greatest city in the world.
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