My bicycle had a flat. I could have patched the tube and tried to ride it but the tires needed replacing and the bike shop that I am religiously loyal to is closed on Wednesdays - I'd forgotten and stopped by far from public transportation in the shadows of the BQE or LIE or whatever that highway is that runs over Park Ave in Brooklyn.
I became a pedestrian for a day.
I work on Seventh Avenue between 28th and 29th Streets. I get out of work at 2pm. I had to be at an MSF goodbye party at a bar around the corner from the office (see image below) by around 5pm so I could get to a GGs Reunion on St. Mark's Place by around 7pm. It was a sad day (see image below - the sunshine of the office was departing for the field) but a business day.
I was doing the pavement pound: spontaneous interruption of grassroots youth advocacy orgs in action. If I was from a different time with a different kind of upbringing I think I would have enjoyed being a door-to-door salesman.
First on the list: YA-YA Network. Just around the corner on 29th Street.
Stepping out the elevator, I walked into a wide open space where a group of teenagers was gathered enjoying their last day of the year as community organizers for YA-YA (Youth Activists - Youth Allies). I was given a platform and told to sell my product to the youth. Would they buy it? We'll see, I hope I recognize some of their activist faces at the launch in a couple of weeks.
You can't really see my outfit in that photograph but I probably do look like some sort of a queer salesman with a vest, no sleeves, a tie with Yogi Bear and my generic fedora. Not to mention super-city hoop earrings. And my baggy boy jeans in an early state of disintegration. The hole in the crotch not yet noticeable.
Second on the list: Southbound to Lafayette and Bleeker to walk in on NYSYLC. There was a buzzer and an intercom. I walked up a couple of steep flights of stairs. Found their suite and was met with curious but dismissive glances from a busy staff in a narrow office each at his or her own computer working efficiently. I commenced my pitch, a little bit breathless not really caring what effect my fedora and Yogi Bear tie would have on these gritty activists. One of them kind of looked at me and asked if I was in the right place. Yeah, I said, a bit breathless from the stairs. And got through my pitch, their eyes turning toward me with a bit more attention, one woman especially interested. This would be her niche. They took my flyers and said their thanks. I said mine and headed to
Third on the list.
PEN America. The literary giant of Freedom of Expression. Heroes. Icons. Lots of straight white people having debates about how to have more people of color and women on their panels. I don't think they have progressed the argument so far as different sexualities, trans-identified ... I mean, they're still working on women in leadership positions. But still, an international force to be admired. They're huge, founded in1922 and still manage to avert missionary styles of speech. I mean, their president from 2004-2006 was Salman Rushdie and he founded the PEN World Voices Festival in 2004, so that's pretty much my knowledge of the organization. Which is a beautiful angle.
I found their Broadway building and went in and the young security guard pulled out his book to tell me PEN's floor. Shaking his head and commenting on how he could never remember which company was on what floor. He was cute.
I had to wait a minute for one of the two old-fashioned elevators to descend for me to then ascend to the 3rd Floor.
Immediately across the elevator bank was a closed door with a sign PEN American Center. Easy find. There was a bell that I rang and nothing happened. I tried the door. It opened. I entered. There was a high reception desk to my right and a wall of cubicles preventing a deeper view of the office. And then an open space on the left. A small conference library looking space. But memory is funny and this happened five days ago so who knows what the office actually looks like. There was no receptionist to be seen. No sound of clicking keyboards, rustling paper or murmuring voices. I thought if I walked in there would be empty desks and computers turned off. It would have been too much like a Paul Auster novel based in New York City turns into a Haruki Murakami novel and when I left the building I'd end up in the sewers of Tokyo.
So I left my propaganda on the reception desk which had a few other stacks of paper on it, perhaps from months ago. Maybe no one had been in the office since the World Voices Festival. Maybe I'd stepped into France or Germany and everyone is Out For August (OFA). And I left, in tact, still in New York City and with the low hopes that my project would be circulated amongst their young writers.
All in all I walked about seven miles that day. Participated in an MSF send-off to be remembered. Speeches and messages read aloud from Blackberry phones to say you are our light, we'll miss you. Then to a grassroots organization reunion at Grassroots Tavern and made connections with community garden activists while drinking pitchers of beer and shooting darts with grace, if not accuracy.
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