beginning to burn off.
Wholesale storefront windows overflowed with merchandise. Some had freestanding dismembered mannequin parts—legs sporting hose and stockings in every shade, color and texture, arms with cotton patterned gloves of different lengths, some wrist length, others theatrically past the elbow. She’d thought of the white cotton gloves Eleni had made her wear to church. Who wore gloves anymore?
Merchants across Canal Street sat in lawn chairs smoking. Small dogs had been tied to the merchants’ chairs. There was a grandmotherly Chinese woman smoking a cigar with legs crossed like a man. Several shops were still gated shut—either too early to open or deserted—their jail-like bars were padlocked. The locks looked rusted shut. Chunks of curb were missing like a giant had bent over and taken a huge bite. Jackhammering echoed from building edifices, bouncing off every direction as they broke past striations of asphalt to brick and to cobblestone dating back to the horse and carriage. Discs of chewing gum covered the sidewalk, flattened as if by a steamroller. The coolness of the previous evening had caused the gum to set, but in the warmth of the sun they’d soon be gooey, tacking onto people’s soles.
Paula and Fotis walked beneath block-long caverns of tangled metal scaffolding, over sidewalks of makeshift plywood through Tribeca, on up toward Ninth Avenue and the car dealership. They cut west over to Eleventh Avenue. It was another two miles north to the dealership and she figured they’d make it there by lunchtime. Her breakfast had been sketchy; she was hungry though it was not yet eleven.
Aromas of cooking meat and curry stew from clusters of street food vendors lured her across the street. A slice of pizza and three frankfurters later, she looked for a place to sit.
A vacant bench felt good; she wasn’t used to walking so fast in one stretch. Fotis stood drooling. “You have to learn to eat your dog food,” she said halfheartedly as he eyed the pizza, a spindle of drool streaming from his lips. Paula folded the slice of pizza and took a bite while she fed Fotis a frankfurter.
He gobbled it down so fast he almost nipped her fingers. “Jesus.” She yanked back her hand. “Ciga, ciga,” she told him. “Easy.” She readied the second frankfurter, holding it like a torpedo. He took it more gently, having realized his overzealousness.
“Much better,” she said as he swallowed the third dog.
They walked briskly past a block of shady currency exchange storefronts. Hindi and Asian alphabets covered up what had once been storefront windows. These places didn’t seem open for business except she spotted a man scurrying across the street toward a windowless door that opened just enough for him to pass through.
The last mile led them to a walkway overlooking the Hudson River. Runners, people pushing strollers, pedestrians with no apparent goal other than enjoying the sights.
She noticed that Fotis garnered a lot of attention. Perhaps it was his size. Some would take one look, scowl and then turn a shoulder against him as they crossed mid-block. Others would slow and gravitate toward Fotis, saying, “Can I pet your dog?” and often asking what kind of dog he was. A few young men softened the instant they spotted him. It pleased and surprised her. “Cool dog.” A man with forearms tattooed with sleeves of flames and skulls, metal dangling from every loose flap of skin, was on the verge of tears. A severe-looking older man wearing an expensive suit leaned over to pet Fotis. The man started to cough as if breaking into a fit. He explained how Fotis reminded him of Susie, his childhood dog. As a boy he’d slid his bath towel under Susie’s hips to help her down the back stairs out into the yard. She’d had crippling arthritis. Paula felt moved as he recounted how the dog had suffered indignity and sadness as she was robbed of the smallest comforts. “I can’t bear to watch anything
Wholesale storefront windows overflowed with merchandise. Some had freestanding dismembered mannequin parts—legs sporting hose and stockings in every shade, color and texture, arms with cotton patterned gloves of different lengths, some wrist length, others theatrically past the elbow. She’d thought of the white cotton gloves Eleni had made her wear to church. Who wore gloves anymore?
Merchants across Canal Street sat in lawn chairs smoking. Small dogs had been tied to the merchants’ chairs. There was a grandmotherly Chinese woman smoking a cigar with legs crossed like a man. Several shops were still gated shut—either too early to open or deserted—their jail-like bars were padlocked. The locks looked rusted shut. Chunks of curb were missing like a giant had bent over and taken a huge bite. Jackhammering echoed from building edifices, bouncing off every direction as they broke past striations of asphalt to brick and to cobblestone dating back to the horse and carriage. Discs of chewing gum covered the sidewalk, flattened as if by a steamroller. The coolness of the previous evening had caused the gum to set, but in the warmth of the sun they’d soon be gooey, tacking onto people’s soles.
Paula and Fotis walked beneath block-long caverns of tangled metal scaffolding, over sidewalks of makeshift plywood through Tribeca, on up toward Ninth Avenue and the car dealership. They cut west over to Eleventh Avenue. It was another two miles north to the dealership and she figured they’d make it there by lunchtime. Her breakfast had been sketchy; she was hungry though it was not yet eleven.
Aromas of cooking meat and curry stew from clusters of street food vendors lured her across the street. A slice of pizza and three frankfurters later, she looked for a place to sit.
A vacant bench felt good; she wasn’t used to walking so fast in one stretch. Fotis stood drooling. “You have to learn to eat your dog food,” she said halfheartedly as he eyed the pizza, a spindle of drool streaming from his lips. Paula folded the slice of pizza and took a bite while she fed Fotis a frankfurter.
He gobbled it down so fast he almost nipped her fingers. “Jesus.” She yanked back her hand. “Ciga, ciga,” she told him. “Easy.” She readied the second frankfurter, holding it like a torpedo. He took it more gently, having realized his overzealousness.
“Much better,” she said as he swallowed the third dog.
They walked briskly past a block of shady currency exchange storefronts. Hindi and Asian alphabets covered up what had once been storefront windows. These places didn’t seem open for business except she spotted a man scurrying across the street toward a windowless door that opened just enough for him to pass through.
The last mile led them to a walkway overlooking the Hudson River. Runners, people pushing strollers, pedestrians with no apparent goal other than enjoying the sights.
She noticed that Fotis garnered a lot of attention. Perhaps it was his size. Some would take one look, scowl and then turn a shoulder against him as they crossed mid-block. Others would slow and gravitate toward Fotis, saying, “Can I pet your dog?” and often asking what kind of dog he was. A few young men softened the instant they spotted him. It pleased and surprised her. “Cool dog.” A man with forearms tattooed with sleeves of flames and skulls, metal dangling from every loose flap of skin, was on the verge of tears. A severe-looking older man wearing an expensive suit leaned over to pet Fotis. The man started to cough as if breaking into a fit. He explained how Fotis reminded him of Susie, his childhood dog. As a boy he’d slid his bath towel under Susie’s hips to help her down the back stairs out into the yard. She’d had crippling arthritis. Paula felt moved as he recounted how the dog had suffered indignity and sadness as she was robbed of the smallest comforts. “I can’t bear to watch anything
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