Central Park is a majestic place, especially during the summer months. If you’ve spent any time there, as I have, reveling in the shady space beneath the Cherry and Poplar Trees, you would probably agree. It is arguably the most peaceful and inviting present that New York City has to offer. I could spend incalculable hours roaming its winding paths and offshooting trails. There’s a sense of calm that comes over me every time that I step from the sidewalk to the gravel entryway at any point on the park’s border. I have haplessly tanned on the sun-drenched lawns, climbed a twelve foot statue with nearly calamitous results, and I have happily stood in the rain for a free Summer Stage concert. That is where I found myself on Saturday, June 16th, 2007.
There are times when I gravitate towards a calling and times when a call dictates my destiny. The cell phone can be a valuable invention when it is least expected. Personally, I think that there is a great dependency upon this cellular/cell/mobile phone culture, but there is no doubting its utility. I have the oldest operating model in New York City and I can still vouch for the significance of said technology. People frequently scoff (and by frequent, I mean every time that I use it in public) at my Nokia Cinderblock 5000, though I’m not ashamed. Fortunately, it can and will answer and identify callers just like a BlueBerryTM.
On this fortuitous Saturday, I recognized the Philadelphia area code and suddenly remembered that a college friend was visiting for the weekend. In our brief conversation, I pretended not to have forgotten that he was heading east for our seasonal reunification.
He told me that he had been screwed by a vendor on Craigslist and the Yankees tickets that he received a few days earlier were for the wrong day. After two days of calling the seller and never hearing word, he gave up and decided to come anyway. He said that an old friend from California was with him. They were staying at the Hilton in midtown and were at a loss, having scrapped their baseball watching plans. I was already at the park, waiting on another friend who was running late, watching the darkened cloudbursts filtered through my sunglasses and a grove of Elm trees. There was a free show at Rumsey Playfield; apparently Television had reunited. We hung up without actually confirming that we would meet. In fact, I think we just said we’d be in touch, and left it at that.
Five minutes after I talked to Ryan, Katie showed up. She apologized for her tardiness, I told her that it was unacceptable, and that I don’t tolerate insubordination. She smirked and frowned at the same time. I had never seen that expression, and believed it to be humanly impossible. Later, she admitted that she thought it was a funny joke. She joined me on the grassy knoll, the bulbous, knotty roots against our backs. I can’t remember what we talked about. It could have been something about her last days of work as a paralegal, or maybe I was flapping away about my undying love for Wayne Coyne. I can’t recall. I wasn’t listening to anyone but the barking dogs that weekend. I make great company for myself.
We made our way over to the concert venue. Upon passing a carousel I reminisced about a merry-go-round of my childhood in Balboa Park, San Diego. As we went around at what seemed to be a thrilling speed, we could reach for a wooden arm that deposited shiny metal rings. If one was lucky enough to catch the arm when it dropped the long sought after brass ring, they would win a free ride. I never was able to grab the brass ring, though I clearly remember throwing the tarnished silvery ones into a basket as we flew by. Katie wanted to know if it was dangerous, had any kids fallen of the horse. I didn’t have an answer; my mother would have covered my eyes so I could repress the memory. I don’t even know if the carousel is there anymore. I seem to remember it getting condemned. Some kid was probably videotaped screaming, “Get me off this Hell machine!” and that was the end of another glorious piece of Americana. As we ascended the hill that led us away, I recommended that she see Hitchcock’s Strangers on a Train.
There’s no stopping me from equating cinema with real life. Only when there’s some considerable distraction, such as a free concert in the park, can my imagination be contained. People of all ages were pouring in, trying to weave their way through the labyrinthine line that constituted the only entrance. I could say something here about all-ages shows and how they differ from the age-limited type, but I won’t. I’ll save that thought.
They were taking donations and the greeter was shouting hilarious remarks like, “If you don’t contribute a dollar, you have no soul!” Making me laugh would have convinced me if the gatekeepers could have broken a twenty. There was a band clamoring on stage. They were trying to blend punk rock with tribal rhythmns and a droning, heavy metal aesthetic. The sound didn’t seem to have a purpose, though it did have an unfinished quality. I’m never impressed when a budding band’s influences are immediately recognizable as the contemporaneous height of popularity. What’s worse is that I saw their principal influence a year earlier at a free ‘Celebrate Brooklyn’ concert.
Much of the fenced-in crowd was sitting on green miniature golf turf and ignoring the music. We couldn’t find an empty space to park, so we walked the perimeter. By chance, I walked into Ryan, who looked different from the last time I saw him, six months ago. Now we could both openly admit that we were balding. We shook hands and then embraced. His silent partner stood by, waiting for an introduction. Before Ryan could say anything, I tried to make him feel welcome by commenting on our good fortune. He said his name was Mike and left it at that. He was either uncomfortable or sizing me up. He could probably sense my liberal leanings; conservatives are crafty that way.
They each bought a six dollar Corona that had to be poured into a clear plastic cup. We waited for the band to finish, at which point some of the crowd disbanded and we were afforded a spot on the Astroturf. In the interim time between bands, Ryan and I tried not to alienate our acquaintances. I tried to bring Mike into the fold by asking him about his career.
“I work in ethics.” He said.
“Wow. That’s really interesting. I didn’t know there was still work in such a discipline. What does an ethicist do, other than pontificate about moral corruption?”
“Well, you know, there’s a lot of unethical things going on in corporate America.”
“I’m sure. I actually work for a nonprofit, but I’ve seen documentaries.” I was trying not to sound like too much of an asshole, while freely expressing myself.
“It’s a small operation. Just me and two others. Mostly, we research unscrupulous financial proceedings.”
He sounded incredibly vague. Sometimes I wonder if there is even any profitable service provided. I probed further.
“You live in LA, right? Who do you work for?”
“Northrop Grumman. It’s a technology and information systems company.” He referred to it like it was a small, unknown business venture.
“I know Northrop Grumman. They’re a defense contractor. They build weapons of mass destruction. That’s amazing!” I laughed ironically.
“They don’t build the weapons, they provide products and technological information to the military, who builds the missiles.”
“I’m in awe,” I refrained from an easy pun. “I can’t believe you work in ethics for a company that makes weapons that kill thousands of innocent people.”
“That’s a common misperception. The guidance systems in Smart Bombs are exceptionally precise. There’s hardly any collateral damage. Of course, it’s war, so there are going to be some casualties. For the most part, though, they’re blowing up buildings.”
Have you ever noticed how republicans state their argument as fact? I turned to Katie and smiled. I decided not to take the conversation any further. The Apples in Stereo would be coming on in a minute to extinguish any tension that may have arisen. I asked her if she had ever heard of Systems Justification Theory. She had not, though I thought she could have, seeing as how she attended NYU and the theory was developed by a professor there. I simplified it by stating that it was a social-psychological model, which asserted that we will unconsciously try to justify our personal, political and social systems. She is a smart young woman. I think she got the gist of it.
The music took me away once again. The looming clouds arrived and it started to rain. I was dancing, quite content. There was reason to smile. It was summertime, we were in Central Park. Smart bombs and free concerts. Only made in America.
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