Chapter 22
22
Central Park
In the Park, if you look closely, you will find scrawled Rumi quotes, Etta James lyrics, the first sentence of Lolita etched vertically down a black tupelo. And although the tree has nearly healed over three times, Park-goers won’t let the message fade. They re-carve it. And re-carve it again. It is as if the act itself is stimulating, or as if to remind themselves, as if sentimentality and superstition can keep romance, even the questionable kind, from decaying, from going slack.
Under the benches, where the streets meet the sidewalks, there are condom wrappers, undies, and phone numbers scribbled on ticket stubs. There are red, pink, nude lipstick tubes discarded or dropped near oak stumps by Gapstow Bridge. All have been used with love in mind in some way. There are francs (he can’t know I was there), dinner-for-two receipts (it wasn’t with Bob!), jewelry boxes, oyster shells, tennis permits (that only means one thing), and lube bottles. There is a bottle of Viagra, half-used. There are ripped photographs with a smattering of black x ’s across a woman’s face; she didn’t cheat but it seemed like she did and that was enough. There is the entire manuscript for a romance novel, scattered between Eighty-First and Eighty-Second, three blocks in. Vampire meets vampire. They fall in love. There is a copy of a matchmaker’s NDA. What goes unnoticed? What is missed? The phone number scribbled on a takeout menu, one lipstick in shade Orgasm, and the oyster shells. I was saving them for our love box. How else will we remember our first time?
In the Park, there is a dedicated team of cops, gardeners, and arborists. There is pest and waste management, and custodial services. There are monument conservationists, directors and assistant directors and assistants to the directors of Parkwide Support. There are three provisional wild animal keepers at the Central Park Zoo, and they’re looking for a fourth. Eduardo met his wife as he was doing stone repair at the Delacorte Theater. She’s a singer. You should hear her Tina Turner. Sergeant Ramirez and Lieutenant Johnson-Ramirez got married at Cop Cot. Tyrone proposed on a gondola. The assistant manager of Natural Areas cannot believe the beauty of the mother of two at the Pinetum. He is reminded of her whenever he smells pine. The gardening interns pretend that touching knees over the daffodils is not part of the job. How they long to take off each other’s overalls and roll around in the moist soil of the Olmsted Flower Bed.
If one is alarmed by the raccoons near the Reservoir—what is happening? are they rabid? mating?—do not hesitate to call the Park’s Urban Rangers. If the Stroke It Like a Pro demonstration gets out of hand, try 311. Always report lost engagement rings, expensive-looking bridal shower gift bags, and a honeymoon photo album to the NYPD Central Park Precinct by the 86th Street Transverse Road. They will meet you if their schedules permit. If Quincy, the black Newfie, gets away again, please know that he loves hot dogs and will respond to his name but only when it’s whispered softly. Then call the animal care center. If people are screwing in the Merchants’ Gate comfort station, check the Restroom Guide for protocol. There is more information there. It is illegal to film porn in the Park. Even the soft stuff. Check the Film Guidelines and Contact Information for specifics. The NYC Parks Enforcement Patrol is here for all questions about mating and peepers and creepers and unauthorized anniversary celebration mariachi bands and G-strings. They want to help.
Important to note, despite all the love in the Park, there are certain lovers best to avoid. There are couples who meander, stop abruptly, stretch their arms out long, keeping their fingers entwined so one never knows which way to go to get around. There are partners who scream at each other, take up the whole walkway; one has to dash around them, ducking down, pretend not to see. There are lovers who French-kiss right in the middle of everything. Get a room! There are kids around! This is the bike lane! There are mating cats. If they sense a threat, they’ll turn their passion into aggression—and typically not toward the other cat. There is an ex-UPS driver in a pink dress who stands on Umpire Rock and proclaims the love fortunes of anyone he sees fit, whether they like it or not. News flash: it is never good. There are guys with their dicks out in the North Woods, including Sammy, who also volunteers at the basketball youth group. There are creeps, letches, pervs, and stalkers everywhere, and it’s hard to know who is who, but a good place to start is to notice eyes and pacing and breathing and location of hands.
For those who know, for those who feel it, the Park is more than just a park. It is evocative, a symbol. It reminds them of something else, someone else. After many months, two men from Tantric Stretching try meeting for coffee on Columbus. It doesn’t work. Without the Park, they don’t make sense. Their faces look different. They prefer to be upside down together. The mommies go home. There, it is not that they change their minds exactly. It is that motherhood is hard enough. There is so much to clean. They’ll discover their own needs one day. But not today.
Near the entrance to Strawberry Fields, Alice’s husband sits on a bench dedicated to Jane, though how could he possibly know? He is reading the Saturday Profile and drinking orange juice with a straw, no pulp. It is about a priest who officiated a marriage every day for fifty-five years, come rain, come shine. Alice’s husband loves a good love story, leans back in appreciation. His marriage has always been good; they’ve always been happy, despite their lot. Still, on Jane’s bench, Alice’s husband feels a romance like he’s never known. It is in the hushing leaves on the trees, in the light catching on the San Remo as if there’s a god on each tower, radiating. Or perhaps the towers are the gods themselves at an altar, he thinks. I do. I do. Alice’s husband puts down his paper, his juice. He listens for birdsong but there is none. No ballads either, though it feels like that. He is desperate for nothing. And yet, here, there is acknowledgment anyway. A promise as if from the gods themselves for what he could not know. You do, they say. You do.