MANHATTAN
VOYAGERS
____
a novel
Copyright 2012 Thomas Quealy,
All rights reserved.
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0896-5
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Also by Thomas Quealy
Ordinary Magic
M + M
Is That You?
The Oracle of Stone Street
Conversation is an oral exchange of opinions, sentiments, ideas, or observations between people.
Unfortunately, in this Digital Age we live in, conversation is rapidly becoming a lost art form.
Life is a voyage.
Pier 11
The coastal seabird was perched atop a wood piling at the end of Pier 11 on Manhattan’s East River, its wings spread at awkward angles, sunning in the bright light of a pleasant day. It had dark plumage and a long bill, sharply hooked, with webbed feet and four toes. A yellow helicopter passed noisily overhead as it circled to make a landing at the Wall Street Heliport located a hundred yards south of the pier.
The bird shrieked at it. As soon as that helicopter set down on the small patch of tarmac a blue one took off and the whirling rotor blades made a grinding sound as its powerful engine strained to gain altitude. The bird looked up again and shrieked at it as well.
In the distance, more helicopters formed a disciplined line in the sky as they approached to make their scheduled landings. Some of these planes had been hired by tourists at $130 per passenger to take fifteen-minute sightseeing rides over the harbor – the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island (formerly called Oyster Island) being the main attractions -- however, most were utilized by brokerage house and investment bank personnel for making quick $150 trips to the JFK and Newark airports. The forty-minute ride to East Hampton cost only $500 and was very popular with senior executives seeking to avoid the hoi polloi on the ever-jammed Long Island Expressway as they escaped to their summerhouses at the beach for the weekend. For local residents this convenience came at a high price and a steady stream of daily noise complaints were placed to the city’s 311 hotline.
Pier 11, with its bollards and cleats, also operated as a working ferry terminal. NY Waterway boats constantly dropped off and picked up business commuters, transporting them to Hoboken, Weehawken, Atlantic Highlands, Glen Cove, and Jersey City. During the summer, day-trippers were also able to take boats to the Rockaway beaches to escape New York’s humid weather. Shoppers could also take a ferry to the IKEA store in Red Hook, Brooklyn, for a fare of $5.00 that was subsequently credited against any purchases they made there.
Jutting out like a slender finger into the strong current, the pier hosted a motley crew of habitues. In the mornings, solitary old men, their liver spotted hands resting on canes or clutching paper coffee cups, occupied most of the benches. They stared sphinx-like out at the water, mesmerized and hypnotized by it, though not actually seeing it, their mind’s eyes focused instead on events from their distant pasts: of family disputes and amends never made, of tender words left unspoken, of grievous errors in judgment, of close friends who had been forsaken, of painful regrets that still woke them up in the middle of the night, and of infidelities and binges that destroyed loved ones. But mostly they thought about the paths not taken in life; the great opportunities missed, and the youthful dreams never realized.
A fortunate few had come to terms with the past, or at least made an uneasy peace with it, and were able to let it go. More yearned for a chance to start over again so they could do things differently the second time around; to rectify the ancient wrongs; to make wiser decisions; to communicate better with loved ones and share their inner-most feelings; to take back the many recriminations uttered in fear or in jealousy; and to be the solid, upstanding, dependable husbands, fathers, brothers, and sons they had always meant to be.
Others were all too aware that life didn’t have a REBOOT button, and more importantly, a DELETE button. They were weary and worn down by its daily struggles; already had one foot in the grave, were in chronic pain, or worse, in abject despair, lonely and forgotten, or merely ignored; barely making ends meet by eating just one meal a day; earning a few bucks by collecting bottles and cans from the trash for the five cents deposit or by wearing sandwich boards hawking Cash-For-Gold ads on busy thoroughfares while fervently praying to a merciful God for the sublime Afterlife to begin, where all transgressions, great and small, were forgiven and they were welcomed with open arms and the jubilant sound of trumpets into the never-ending joy that is Heaven.
Before noon on weekdays, the office workers of the historic Financial District claimed the seats from the old men and they basked in the warm sunlight by the river; watching the passing boat traffic, working on their tans, listening to music on their iPods, eating their tossed salads, burgers, and falafels, smoking their cigars and cigarettes, gossiping and boasting on their smartphones, or digitally flirting with each other and finagling for a date to go for a few drinks at the end of the workday, that might, if they got lucky, lead to a one-night-stand of casual, totally meaningless sex.
In the late evening hours a very different, disheveled crew showed up -- the homeless – their pilfered supermarket shopping carts filled with all their worldly goods, vying to set up makeshift beds on those coveted benches that were shielded from the weather by the elevated structure of the FDR Drive. Some were barefoot and stunk to high heaven from not bathing for weeks on end. Many were grifters and petty thieves with rap sheets for minor offenses; a few major losers amongst them were wanted for long-ago felonies committed in faraway jurisdictions where the record-keeping was haphazard and the authorities lost track of them. And more than a few spoke in tongues and lacked the mental capacity to regret any past actions, their minds crammed instead with psychotic delusions as they shuffled slowly, but inexorably, down the treacherous path to oblivion.
Pier 11 was also an excellent spot for visitors to Downtown New York to snap photos of the Brooklyn Bridge and of the Atlantic Clipper Ships that were permanently docked as floating museums at the South Street Seaport. Just such a middle-aged couple walked out onto the pier and the seabird aggressively flapped its wings, sensing the duo intended to encroach on his territory.
The Botox-injected bleached blonde wore an expensive linen dress and a wide-brimmed hat to shade her milky white skin from the destructive rays of the sun. A $425 pair of sunglasses dangled from a silver chain round her neck. In her hands she held the latest model digital camera and her eyes scanned the maritime landscape for the best photo opportunities so she could show the pictures to Mildred and Gloria at the country club back home, and also to her 972 Facebook friends, 961 of whom she’d never met in person.
The man sauntered a few deferential paces behind her and puffed leisurely on a cigar. He had a domelike head atop a pear shaped body and stood a few inches shorter
