A Summer Night in New York City

I know that they have summer nights all over the world, even in December in the southern hemisphere of all things, and I'm certain that summer nights in the South are pretty distinctive, but there is nothing like a summer night in New York City.

It's hot, of course it's hot, and the air is like an old washcloth, but there is something special about a summer night after the sun goes down and the heat is a bit less oppressive. A summer in the city.

But when you're outside and your skin temperature goes back up, every little breeze is felt and appreciated, and once the sun goes down and the sidewalks cool down, the breeze is sweeter and more frequent.

I am wearing my lightest dress, my summer dress, it's thin as a handkerchief, sleeveless and only hits my knees--believe me when I say that it must be very hot for me to wear it, disregarding my upper arms. I am even wearing sandals, a very unusual occurrence, but I couldn't bear the thought of socks and my black shoes, so I pulled out my rarely-worn strappy sandals--rarely worn because the linings are sort of unglued and slip around and because they have heels.

But in order to celebrate the sandals, I am also wearing toe rings that I bought from the sister of a woman I work with, one with a painted daisy, one with a ladybug. I feel like a different person in these shoes, in these rings, in this dress, like I'm wearing a costume, like I'm playing the role of "Summer Night Girl".

I get on the bus, standing above a woman who keeps looking up at me like she doesn't think much of what she's seeing. Once I even catch her eye, but she doesn't look away, like she's watching TV and I'm not really there. I'm wondering if I have a story printed across my forehead that she's trying to read.

After a couple of stops, enough people get off that I can scam a seat next to a tiny little old lady with an accent, the kind of person who talks to strangers on the bus. She makes a few comments, I smile and read more of the JFK Jr. memorial in People magazine. Reading the words "The late JFK Jr." still knocks me sideways.

We stop at a stop, people get off, many more people get on, and the bus does not move. Instead, an electronic woman's voice keeps saying "Please step out of the rear stairwell". People are turning and staring and finally a guy yells out "But nobody is standing in the rear stairwell!"

The bus still doesn't move, the power keeps going out, the electronic voice keeps scolding, the hydraulics are making noises, and the natives are getting restless. "What is happening?" asks the old lady next to me. "Somebody ask the driver what is going on!" yells the old man behind me. I think that the people in the front are asking the driver, but he isn't answering. The bus is behaving like a sulky colt and handling it is taking all of his concentration.

We all finally realize that it has nothing to do with the back stairwell, it's that the driver can lower the bus for people to get on, and he just can't get it back up, and of course the bus is refusing to move. People start getting off, trying to see if it was just the extra weight of the new passengers, but to no avail.

The old man behind me keeps yelling out for someone to ask the driver, until he finally burrows through the crowd and asks himself, followed by my seat partner who scurries after him like a mouse. I don't know if he gets a satisfactory answer or not, because at that point another bus comes by, and the driver tells everyone to get off and get onto the new bus.

We all pile on, a bus-full of people loading onto a pretty fullish bus to begin with, the passengers looking slightly startled as to why that particular stop was so very popular, until I say "Our bus broke." Smiles of understanding all around.

It's like clowns in a circus car, people are practically strapping themselves onto the roof.

Slowly, the bus empties out, but never enough for me to sit again, but since sitting is clearly bad luck, better to stand. I finish People and go on to Entertainment Weekly. The Haunting sure looks like it sucks, but I'll probably see it later.

I look up and see signs for the Queens Mid-Town Tunnel, and though I am less than familiar with 2nd Ave., I squint out of the window to see if I have missed my stop. I get out at 34th St. Only eight blocks wrong.

It's so cool in McDonald's. Everytime I'm on the street, I forget about the heat until I walk into someplace with air conditioning. I have a love/hate relationship with air conditioning. I don't want to live with it, as the house I grew up in was one of those big airy homes that just stay naturally cool, I'd rather open windows and get real air, but it sure is nice to visit.

I make my meal last a long time. They gave me eight McNuggets rather than six, as some were sticking together. I win a free breakfast sandwich from the game piece on my fries. It's my lucky night.

I like the M104, as it's a smaller and more old-fashioned bus than the ones that you usually find. It feels homely and comforting riding in it. I like it when the bus driver is nice, too.

We stop, and people pile on. One woman's card makes the "fare not paid" boop sound rather than the "fare paid" beep sound, but she keeps on walking. The formerly Mr. Friendly bus driver turns into a raving maniac.

"HEY! YOU!! YOOOOOUUUUU!!!! Get back here! Pay your FAAAARE!!!"

It turns out that the woman is a sweet-faced Japanese tourist who has no idea what he is talking about as he screams at her like a guard at a prisoner caught with drugs up his ass. Her husband or boyfriend or whatever comes back and pays her fare with his card, and they seem fine, but the mood on the bus has changed drastically. We hate the driver now.

It's not that New Yorkers have anything against putting tourists in their place--being shoved around by the natives is part of the tourist experience and we here in RudyLand™ (a wholly owned subsidiary of Walt Disney Corp.) want to give you stories to tell when you get home, but that driver was just plain mean and for no good reason.

When we get to 8th Ave., I get off without thanking the driver, something I never do. I believe that nice people don't litter, never use racial slurs (even when it's Just Us), always help people with suitcase trolleys on subways stairs, and always thank the bus driver. But not this bus driver. Instead, I snub him. That'll teach him.

I go to the Ben & Jerry's on the corner of 8th and 43rd. It is as crowded as the bus was, the line snaking around the store. Everyone at once has remembered the one thing that a summer night, a summer night in New York City, requires--ice cream. Cones and cups and sundaes and shakes and floats. Cherry Garcia and Chubby Hubby and Heath Bar Crunch.

The line turns right at the place where the big giant fan stands. I lean into it for as long as I can before I have to move up.

"A regular Triple Caramel Chunk in a wafer cone, please." $3.10 for a double scoop seems excessive at first, but after the first lick, I forget about dollar cones when I was a kid. Triple Caramel Chunk is the greatest ice cream on earth, besides Rocky Road. Caramel ice cream with caramel swirl and caramel lumps covered with chocolate--kind of like Rolos. Or is it Rollos? Anyway, it's just about perfect. Unless you don't much care for caramel.

I walk down the street, eating it as fast as I can. Not because I am greedy, or starving, but because it is hot enough that if even a moment is spent in an occupation other than ice cream-eating, the melting will get ahead of me and I will end up covered in Triple Caramel Chunk from head to toe. I drop some on my front and can barely take the time to flick it back into my mouth.

I pass boys on the street, all asking for a taste, but it's not nasty cat-calling, it's friendly. It's because we're all New Yorkers and it's a summer night. We don't know each other, but we do. And who can see a girl struggling with a melting cone without offering to help?

The wind is blowing my hair into the cone, but I can't take the time to brush it back. It's a race with the heat, one I just barely win, chewing on the cone so papery that I eat part of the napkin without noticing.

I get on the van and go home, another summer night in the city over.