Lunch
An
electronic beep-boop as the machine accepts my card payment. Pans
clang against each other. Aluminum sheets crinkle. The
oven cranks open, the server slides the wooden peel under my slice and deposits
it on my paper plate. I tuck into the corner booth with my food and chow down
excitedly. I notice that the same repertoire of sounds recycle: customers huff orders,
the ringing phone, clattering pans, the peel scraping under each slice. The ice
in my Cherry Coke becomes more audible with every sip – gives me a relieving
shiver. The sounds of traffic seep inside from the open door, coalescing with Jon
Bon Jovi on the radio – “you give love – a bad name”. Beneath the song is a
steady whirring, perhaps the air conditioner or some sort of fan. Upon finishing
I hear a gooey crunch, and a woman mutters to her husband “that was a cockroach”.
Street
Outside
the street screeches. Loud. Resonant. Thundering! It feels like an eccentric
conversation, nearly impossible to hear my own thoughts. Car engines rev,
impatient honks as the light sparks green. Taxis constantly interrupt and barge
in, tires squealing as they weave through traffic. The busses have split
personalities: the grumbling type even at a red light, and the one that sputters
and sighs into silence at each stop. On the sidewalk, wheeling luggage against
the cement, pounding sneakers, clicking high heels, and multilingual
conversations make up the pedestrian soundscape.
Grand
Central
Greeted
by an invasive, metallic clanging – a homeless man shakes coins in a plastic
cup. I progress down the lavish passageway towards the main concourse, where the
entire world changes… Hundreds of voices blend into an undulating wave. Resounding,
yet a subdued kind of racket. It becomes part of the scene and it feels as if I
am in an underwater biome – NYC Atlantis. I explore. Wheels strain under people’s
belongings, arduous steps as they ascend the staircase / gallop down it, camera
shutters click incessantly. The static of the NYPD officers’ walkie-talkies go
off the hook, moments after a blaring announcement over the sound system interrupts
to remind all that there is construction on several staircases. I stroll in and
out of random shops, amused how they act almost like air pockets, where the
undulating wave of voices is replaced by a hip radio station and a hungry cash
register.
Underground
My
keychains jingle as I trot downstairs, surpassing the rhythmic tapping of a cane.
I breeze through the swiveling turnstiles and descend further. Here, the trains
are kings and they conduct their own symphony. The 5 comes crashing down, its
timbre monumental – the bass of the track. A downtown baritone 4 runs parallel,
providing a complementary chord. Finally, the uptown 6 demonstrates to be the
tenor as it shrieks towards me – ascending in both pitch and ferocity – and hisses
to a stop. The doors whip open – I squeeze inside – the doors shut, hushing the
train “station” tunes.
No comments:
Post a Comment