I awakened early and wrote an article before heading to the Financial District where I meandered between Starbucks and got lunch at a Subway. It was a terrible lunch.
So I kept walking to South Street Seaport, a place I hadn't been since I was so young that I had forgotten. But not so young that I forgot what it was like. I remembered Pier 17 being vibrant with life at night.. Bars were open and people strolled through a mid-summer night breeze off the East River. This was no longer the case.
It was early-afternoon and most shops along the cobbled streets were boarded up. Pink and yellow and white and other signs condemned building indicating the lasting effects of Superstorm Sandy. It was lonely and not as vibrant as I'd remembered.
I found myself lounging on the highest level of the pier looking out over the River and Brooklyn Bridge. The sun was just so that I stayed warm though it was in the lower 50s. I read a book and dreamed of what it was like when I'd been there as a child.
By the time the sun had moved away, much like the boat taxis shuttling tourists between Dumbo and Williamsburg, I'd had enough lounging and set out on the cobbled streets in search of a drink.
A feeling pulled me down Front Street and I headed along the deserted carriage ways before coming upon a mother and daughter in front of a Hyundai, its right front tire deflated.
"Can I lend a hand?" I asked feeling more of a gentleman than my normal self. And of course they did, they'd been struggling. So I got on my knees and set to work jacking the car and undoing the lug nuts. They'd gotten one loose but struggled with the rest. My knees quickly became sore. The car began to tilt as I jacked it and the jack collapsed under a Belgian block. One of the women squealed with surprise.
I realigned, then set up again. This time was a success and we spoke of my work and how "freelancing is how it seems" today. The daughter was designing a website for Jeremy's Ale House a block over. That's nice, I said wiping sweat from my forehead, as that's probably where I'd head once through here. The daughter disappeared and left me with her mother. She said I reminded her of an actor. I asked if I could guess who and when she said I guessed correctly I smiled and lurched forward with the spare tire, aligning it flush against the rotors.
When the daughter came back I was tightening the bolts and telling the mother to be sure she gets to the nearest station soon. I was not a mechanic, I joked, and would not feel too good about hearing of them in the news the next day. I was in that business, and I'd surely hear of it. The daughter assured me not to worry and that the bartender at Jeremy's was expecting me. He'd give me a 32oz of my choice, she said. Her treat.
The daughter walked me to Jeremy's and sat with me for a moment at the bar. She asked what beer I wanted and the bartender got me a Brooklyn Lager straight from the tap -- cold. She slipped me $10 and said it was for any other beers. I gave her a hung and wished her safe travels.
I finished the beer silently while sports games played on TVs around me. Fireman and Police patches plastered every wall. You could hardly see them behind bras - pink and yellow and white and others -- hung from every rafter and beam. I had the mind to imagine the occasions were where women, seemingly busty and young, would rip off their undergarments and toss them to the walls. I had a sneaking suspicion it wasn't for the efforts of a lone, wandering man on Front Street replacing so many tires. That's too many tires, I thought.
For Jeremy, though, I was happy. He, surrounded by the pink and yellow and white and other condemning signs, managed to remain open for business, despite unsightly odds.