Chapter 11
11
Central Park
In the Park, there are more than two hundred unhoused couples and quite a few throuples, though they’re harder to enumerate. Some got together at the Ravine, in the Robert Bendheim Playground restroom, the Ramble, in the rain under a tender canopy of trees. On Valentine’s Day, Jesus and Betty, Hope and Tinks, have a double date at the south corner of Great Hill. They listen to the Lovebird Trio from afar, eyes closed. They imagine themselves in fresh clothes, shaven, spritzed with something citrusy. Some sleep together on leaves, on hoodies, on a fresh pack of women’s products. They stargaze. They hold their lockets, love notes, loved ones, close. Luna found a wedding ring in a puddle and kept it. Peter found one and turned it in. The Hero family snacks on chocolate kisses, discarded or dropped. I bet it was that class of second graders! I bet it was Santa! I bet it was God! He listened! They read to each other from the pamphlets left over from the Rumi Fest. Lovers find secret places inside this violent world where they make transactions with beauty. The old-timers know the Central Park Five never did it. Some of them were within earshot. They can never forget the sound. What’s the word for the opposite of love? It isn’t hate. It is far crueler than that.
According to law, there may be no solicitation, public nudity, or sex in the Park. Weddings without authorization are prohibited—as are parties of twenty or more without registration, though there is a weekly Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous meeting at Center Fountain that gets packed. No one may graffiti I love you, Alaina or Jonathan has no dick (or anything) on the USS Maine National Monument. They may not pull a Cusack and play Peter Gabriel at an unreasonable decibel level, though Tinks did try. There are hefty fines for excessive noise, especially if you’re without an address. They are enforced. Toplessness is discouraged, as are open containers of Cristal and sharing a tuna sandwich within nose-shot. Romance is subjective. Public lewdness in the first, second, and third degrees will be punishable to the most extreme extent of the law.
In the Park, cars, cabs, and for-hire vehicles are forbidden; tandem bikes and horse-drawn carriages are okay. Crime is 64 percent lower than the national average; there have been four reported rapes this year. The Park is the only place in the city where the red-eared sliders mate in eyeshot, Treble NYC croons “Empire State of Mind,” a miniseries captures fifty-two couples, each from a different U.S. state or territory, as they marry in a mass wedding at Bethesda Fountain. Tulip or daffodil dedications to a loved one can be purchased through the Conservancy. Abe has spent ten thousand dollars over the last few years—and has requested purple and white tulips specifically. One can donate a bench too: Shnoogs, how lucky are we. Happy 30 years, Dyl and Ames ; Want to run Lovers’ Lane? Robin + Sal, married August 12, 2011 ; Ladybirds: 2003–the end of time .
Some people come to the Park to make something: a prom corsage, a graffiti ghazal on the sunlit grass near Bow Bridge, an enormous Cupid’s bow and arrow of rose petals—it is the only way I’ll get her back!—a sex hex (robin’s nest, cough drop wrapper, two drops of rose oil, hawk feathers, and a song). Some people come to destroy something—drop a ring down the grates, chuck old T-shirts into the Lake. The Park has such romantic gravitas. Love born here. Love died.
Some people come to the Park and leave behind verbal abuse, someone satiated, two rabbits mating in a cage. We thought they were both male. Some leave an unsent breakup email in their drafts. He’s taking me to Harry Styles this weekend; I’ll do it right after. Some leave on the coffee pot. Some leave on the camera, just to see. I fucking knew it! The opera singer / mom leaves her wedding band in a drawer in case Mr. Nice Tush is also on the Upper Loop at this time of day. I’d like to sing to that tush directly. Alice leaves behind the notebook her husband picked up for her at the supermarket because she’s afraid of what it might be like to try to write a gushing sentence about him. He’ll want to see. And who wants to write about painless love anyway? Wasn’t it Abe who always said that happiness writes white?
On the Outer Loop, running south, the runners speed up, slow down. They make eye contact. They are hot, slicked, breathing heavy, hearts boom boom, endorphins out of their ears. At home, the bad news is blaring. The kids need another snack. No more sugar! There is a pile of dishes that is starting to stink and the only underwear left in the drawer is unflattering, NSFW. Here, sprinting, flying, it is not that the runners feel sexier than anywhere. They just don’t feel flattened out. They check their watches. Ten more minutes. Nine. Eight. Don’t stop. Do not stop.