September 29th

Walking south on lower Broadway on a Sunday afternoon. The sunbeams are still warm but in the shade there's a cool that we hadn't thought about since last spring. As we passed Trinity churchyard I put my arm across your shoulder, so scared you might pull away. But you wrapped your arm around my waist and pulled me closer to you. God what a high!

You were wearing that grey cardigan that I liked so much, over a white t shirt and blue bell bottoms. You slipped your hand down from my waist and into the hip pocket of my jeans. At Exchange Place the light and the traffic were against us and we stood like hopeful immigrants.

When the light changed we crossed the narrow street and stood on that little plaza of tile and concrete and shiny stainless steel.

And I don't care what you said later, you kissed me first!

Late September Night

Feeling sunblasted, surprised to be still alive. Like the soul of a dinosaur fossil in the desert. Imagine it, opening its eyes, wondering what happened to the ocean and the ferns and the mud, and why the stars look so different.

Summer's Walking Away Down The Road

It always ends like this, sunny, barren and dry.  The river sinking into the warm sand til there's not even the memory of a seashell left behind. The cactus by the riverbed is lost in a reverie, remembering when rapids boiled over these dry boulders sleeping in the sun. The boulders are feeling the desert breeze and dreaming of rain. The rain gave up on this place long ago.

The Night Before

Five years ago tonight I was in the top floor gallery at Barnes & Noble on Union Square to hear Garrison Keillor read from his new novel, "Lake Wobegone Summer 1956." It was the biggest crowd I've ever seen at a book signing. Heavy thunderstorms were passing across Manhattan, high winds blowing and lightning flashing. More than once Garrison had to pause in his reading for an especially long and loud roll of thunder to pass.

The gallery windows face south, across Union Square and down to the Village, Soho, Chinatown and Lower Manhattan. The twin towers shimmered in the pounding rain, all those fluorescent lights seeming dim each time a fork of lightning struck the buildings. I'd probably seen thousands of lightning bolts hit those buildings over the years. How could we know that we were seeing it happen for the last time?

After the reading Garrison signed copies of his books. He stood on the stage at the front of the room and the crowd formed a line going up the right side aisle. A woman who worked for Barnes & Noble went down the line writing each person's name on a Post-It and sticking it to the book cover. This is common at large readings, it makes it easier for the person signing hundreds of books to get the inscription right.

In all my life there were two  celebrities I was terrified to meet, Leonard Cohen and Garrison Keillor. In each case I'd been a fan for so long, idolized their work, read and listened to everything I could get my hands on, that the thought of finding out either one was a jerk would have been more than I could handle. I met Cohen about twenty years ago and he was a gentle, charming, awe inspiring man. This night I found out that Keillor was kind, soft spoken, funny, genuinely interested in his fans. He asked me where I was from, he said I sounded midwestern. I told him I came from Bed Stuy and now live in Brookyn Heights. He told me I must be doing something right and I said that it was really just a series of happy accidents. He laughed and said, "Jim, my entire career has been a series of happy accidents!" He inscribed the book to me, writing that I was true Brooklyn, and dated it September 10, 2001. We shook hands and I left the stage.

By now it was about ten thirty, half an hour past the store's official closing. It seemed surreal, walking down the still escalators past three dim empty floors to where a lone cashier was working late checking out the people coming from the reading.  A security guard unlocked the door and I walked out into Union Square with a few other people heading for the subway. The rain had stopped and the last clouds were blowing away. The air felt fresh and cool, and the stars were shining. Putting my precious book in my backpack, I went down the stairs to the subway.

When I got home I put the book, still in its bag, on my dining table and took Casey out for his walk. The twin towers loomed over the end of my street, such a constant that I barely noticed the glowing windows, the television mast illuminated against the cool and drying sky. I was thinking about how I would take the book out of its bag tomorrow after work and spend a long peaceful evening of reading.

The next morning I was walking Casey at the end of my street overlooking the harbor at 8:46am.

When I finally took the book out of its bag about three weeks had passed. I opened it and looked at that date, September 10, 2001. When Garrison wrote that date neither of us could have imagined that it was the last day of a world that's gone now. I couldn't help wishing I'd cherished that world more.

Warm Night Sky

Went out to walk Casey tonight and saw the Tribute In Light rising above the end of my street; they're lighting it up again from now through Monday night. Through the anniversary. Two towers of blue-white light so tall and clean, so quiet and untouchable. Ghost beams from a world gone by, a world that gets harder to remember every day. I don't know why, but seeing them there puts a little peace in my heart.

September Night

The sand filled the cracks between the stones, and her sandals tamped it down when she walked out the door. Warm stones, warm sand, in the California sun, and her angry sandals sending shock waves through the seams. She had no idea how hard she stamped when she was pissed at an untrue love. It was the last full moon of summer, and the moonlight was blue where it ran down her cheeks, mixed with her tears.

Labor Day 1969

She was wearing my favorite jacket when I picked her up, the black denim one with the dolphin embroidered on the back. He was an impossible shade of blue, leaping out of a multicolored ocean under a psychedelic sunset. Black t-shirt, bell bottoms, white sneakers, she looked even younger than her sixteen years. Her long brown hair was tied in a pony tail that snaked over her left shoulder and down to her breast. She had a red cotton bandana around her neck like an outlaw's daughter. We walked to the subway holding hands, both hands in the pocket of my jacket. There was more of a chill than usual for a Labor Day morning.

At the pier we boarded the old sidewheeler steamboat and laughed at all the people running forward to try to be the first person in the bow. We strolled aft to the fantail and up to the third deck, where the sun was warming the folding chairs. An ocean liner passed downstream in the river channel and her wake set the steamboat to rocking gently.

At the stroke of ten the captain sounded the steam whistle and edged out of the slip. "Whistle" is such an inadequate word for that brass throated guardian angel, warning all other ships out of our path. Seconds later the echo bounced off the skyscrapers in midtown and rolled back to us, now out in the channel.

She lay her head on my shoulder and we shared a cigarette as the towns rolled by along the river shore. The sun tried to be warm, but there was no mistaking the color of autumn in its beams. We buttoned our jackets against the September cool.

I kissed her under the Bear Mountain Bridge, as the boat heeled hard to starboard to return to the city. While the boat lay broadside to the wash a stray wave slapped her and she rolled hard, jamming the girl's teeth into my gum. The kiss tasted of blood but we kissed anyway. The want was that strong.

Back at the dock that evening the old steamer eased gratefully into her slip. We stepped from ship to shore as the captain rang down "Finished With Engines" on the telegraph. We stood waiting to cross Twelfth Avenue, amazed at how short the days had become.

It was already dark when I brought her home.

Labor Day Weekend

Rain making rivers in the gutters, little whitecaps bubbling up around the tires of the sleeping cars. Raindrops making craters in the sand, til the beach looks like the lonely side of the moon. Rain combing the dead branches from the trees, brushing their green hair before they go to sleep. One glance and you know, it's the first rain of autumn.