The City

by Gregory A. Kompes

Around me, the paths pulsed with people. Some, obviously tourists, of course, but so many, obviously locals. Mothers with strollers, perhaps maids or nannies, and some men, too. Bikers and joggers. In and out of the sunshine, a great flow of humanity on the perfect sunny warm, but not too warm, summer afternoon. Shirtless men, running and chasing frisbees and catching and throwing balls caught my eyes. How could they not? Handsome and strong and mostly young.

As I attempted to cross the street, a bike carriage nearly ran me down, but never acknowledged me. Same with the horse carriage, why were they on this path? I checked myself, to see if I were where I should be. If I were awake, too. Not some dream state. If there might be pigs flying above or the pavement really clouds? I seemed to me real and awake and where I believed myself to be. Joggers nearly ran me down, then two women speed walking passed around me—not through me—without eye contact or even a break in their conversation. Yet, I traversed from one side of the street to the other, unscathed, unharmed, uncertain.

I’d come of age in Central Park, not like a feral child, but simply as a poor young adult transplant to The City. With more time than money. More immortality than mortality. Less rish adverse than now. The park wasn’t as safe then as it seemed this afternoon. Not as peopled or populated. What we thought of in 1990 as “The Brambles,” where unspeakable wonderful things happened…those wooded paths were today encumbered by walkers and hikers of all ages and sexes—nothing untoward to contemplate or remember. Decades ago, I often found myself to be invisible in those moments, and now, invisible again, but for very different reasons.

Invisible. Was that it? Had I become invisible? I could see those around me, but they didn’t notice me. Did this provide freedom?

At the moment, it felt fearful. But why?

I stopped at a “hydration station,” (nee drinking fountain) and filled my bottle. Wondered if the water was safe to drink. I tried to remember back to my own youth. None of the fountains in the park worked. As I finished refilling my bottle, a young man pushed into me with his own bottle in one hand, his phone in the other, he refilled his bottle without looking at it. His focus centered instead on his phone.

All around me, as I negotiated the paths, from the great lawn to the ball fields, to the Dairy and the Carousel, from the ancient statues to the boat pond, no one looked at me or acknowledged me. The why becoming clear, most of those heads centered on phones, on screens, on selfies, on themselves, even when they moved with others in groups and packs. Those without screens focused on balls and frisbees and toys. Even joggers and bikers were focused on screens, not the lush green trees or rich flowers all around us. Not on the glacial grooved rocks or the architecture of the park. And, certainly not on me. A lone, single, isolated soul in the midst of the great multitudes of The City.