Island, the orange patina of the Staten Island Ferry as it neared the terminal, the giant steel gantry cranes unloading a containership on the opposite shore of the river, the aggressive seagulls pestering the commuters for food, and a red and black tugboat pushing a scow filled to the brim with scrap metal towards the Lower Bay.
“This is such a magnificent vista, Harvey, it reminds me when we were in Antwerp on the Scheldt River. Don’t you agree?”
Her husband wasn’t paying attention to the surroundings; he seemed preoccupied with the bird that was now eying the couple warily. Silhouetted against the sky as it was, the bird reminded him of a painting he’d seen at a museum somewhere in their world travels, perhaps in Alexandria or in Prague, he couldn’t recall.
“Harvey, did you hear what I said?”
“Uh-huh, I heard, I heard.”
“Well?”
He quickly glanced up and down the river. “I guess you’re right.”
“Of course, I’m right. I remember every place we’ve ever vacationed. Not like you, Harvey, you don’t remember anything. I swear, sometimes I think you have early on-set dementia.”
He winked at the bird and mumbled under his breath. “Sometimes I wish I had dementia.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing, dear.”
Another helicopter roared above as it descended to land at the heliport and the bird shrieked angrily up at it.
The woman was startled and jumped away from the railing, almost dropping her expensive camera into the water. “That bird is dangerous, it frightened the living daylights out of me.”
“He hates helicopters, Gladys. They’ve probably killed quite a few of his buddies over the years.”
“Just look at it, the bird is absolutely filthy, possibly even rabid.”
“That’s not dirt or soot, Gladys, it’s his natural color.”
“I bet it carries all sorts of nasty infectious diseases, the kind that could kill a person.”
The bird swiveled its head and shrieked wildly at her.
She instinctively clutched at her throat and hastily retreated a few more steps. “It’s going to attack me, Harvey, do something!”
Her husband chuckled. “Be careful what you say, Gladys, he seems to understand English.”
“Call the police, they can shoot it.”
“Don’t be silly, it’s a Cormorant. They’re ancient birds and smart as a whip. In China and Japan, the fishermen even train them to catch fish.”
“I don’t care, it seems dangerous to me.”
“You’ll be surprised to learn this little guy can dive more than 125 feet underwater to search for fish. Imagine that, Gladys, it’s an amazing feat.”
The bird’s chest appeared to puff out with pride at the man’s flattering remark.
“I’m not impressed, not one iota.”
“And in Melville’s Paradise Lost, Satan disguised himself as a Cormorant so he could sneak into the Garden of Eden in order to tempt Eve.”
She glared at the rear of her spouse’s skull. “You store away the most useless pieces of information in that brain of yours, Harvey, stuff nobody else cares about. But when it comes to practical things, such as how to fix a leak in the kitchen sink, you haven’t got a clue.”
“Maybe I should’ve been a college professor instead of an insurance adjustor.”
“Maybe you should’ve been born with a little common sense.”
An inaudible sigh was his only retort.
“Come on, it’s time to go. We’ve got plenty of other sights to see before we go home to Denver tomorrow.” She trod determinedly towards land.
The bird fluttered its wings and flew the short distance from the piling to a position on the railing directly in front of him.
He reached out with a tentative finger and stroked the bird’s long neck.
The Cormorant made a smooshing sound.
Then he suddenly remembered where he’d seen the bird image before -- at the Vatican Museum in Rome – flying high above the fray in a gigantic 15th. Century oil painting of the apocalyptic Battle of Armageddon, the climactic struggle for ultimate domination between the forces of Good and Evil in the world. The museum docent, a retired and cantankerous professor of Art History at the University of Florence, had referred to it as The Sentinel, that ancient guard from mythology who was responsible for keeping the world safe from harm.
“Are you coming or not?” his wife yelled impatiently, already more than fifty feet away
“Don’t fall asleep on the job,” he whispered to the bird, “we’re all counting on you.” Then he scurried after his wife.
*
Wall Street Blues
Tucker ‘Tuck’ Hobbs, 58, a potbellied man with flinty blue eyes, an incipient double-chin, and salt and pepper hair rapped the bar at Harry’s Bar in India House on Hanover Square for emphasis to his lunchtime drinking buddies. “The USA has lost its AAA credit rating; this is a watershed event, a defining moment in our country’s history.”
A tipsy pal swayed precariously. “The spin-doctors are trying to put a happy face on it, however, it’s another nail in the coffin, another sign that America is in decline.”
“I blame it on the clowns in Congress.”
“According to the latest poll, Tuck, 91% of the American people disapprove of the job Congress is doing.”
“I’m one of them.”
“Me, too.”
“The Dow dropped 635 points yesterday and it’s down 220 so far today.”
“Do you think it’s time to buy?”
“Forget it, Jocko, you’d be trying to catch a falling knife.”
“Here we go again, Tuck, it’s beginning to smell like 2008 all over again.”
“Don’t remind me, most of my clients lost 40% of their portfolios when the stock market cratered because of all those sub-prime mortgages going bad.”
The tipsy man belched. “That doesn’t say very much about your skills as a stockbroker.”
“Hey, the economic gurus Greenspan and Bernanke never saw the Great Recession coming. Give me a break for Crissakes.”
“So what are you
