The golden ball on the horizon peeks the top of its head over the Atlantic Ocean, as if unsure whether or not to come out or go back to bed. But like any morning person, the sun is quick to rise and soon most of the sun is above the waterline. Lady Liberty welcomes the sun with her left shoulder, waiting for boats to greet at the harbor. Her eyes occasionally wonder to the left, marveling at the size of the New World Trade Center, standing a thousand four hundred and seventy-one feet taller than her. But far below the Freedom Tower, in the heart of New York City, the birth of the morning is incomparable to the morning on the sea. There is never a passing moment when sounds are not bouncing to and from the skyscrapers. Not necessarily undesirable sounds, but a certain buzz is always in the air. The city is best known for being a place of never resting – there is always an event taking place.
Greg Blake limps slowly down the elongated street in the heart of the city, lost in his thoughts. His feet feel heavy and although he is in a constant chronic pain, his mind is numb to all feelings. Tourists and natives to the city walk past him, oblivious to the middle age man in the midnight colored suit – not an uncommon sight in the city. His eyes fall to the ground, watching his feet as he drags them across the pavement. His mind is a blank slate – no thoughts, co concerns, no memories, nothing. If he had been inspecting the ground, he would have been surprised by the lack of garbage taking up residence on the cement, except for the occasional piece of gum. Subconsciously, he stops in front of a great, beautiful red brick building. Petite songbirds chase each other playfully while unconcerned pigeons rest on the fire escape.
He slowly looks up, squinting slightly as the sunlight catches his eyes, reflecting off the skyscraper windows like a mirror. As he averts his eyes from the crisp golden light, his eyes fall upon one of his neighbors hailing down a yellow four-wheeled teleporting vehicle. A few young school children pass him, laughing together – why were they out of school? Was it the end of the school day already? Or was it the beginning of the day? A glance at his watch tells Greg the morning is still young. Paranoia overpowering him, Greg glances around tentatively, watching the few people near him. Coming to the conclusion that they are not looking at him, Greg enters his apartment building. The lobby is near empty except for a few people checking their mail and a fresh bouquet of flowers that has taken up residence on one of the tables in a small sky blue vase. Eyes turning back to his feet, Greg sees the reflection of a lost and lonely man staring back at him on the tiled floor. Favoring his permanently damaged leg, Greg limps past the newly renovated elevator to the stairs. It is as though the stairs have extended, making them seem never-ending. Reaching the third floor, he trudges through the brightly lit hallway. The newly painted walls smile and the carpet softens his steps. Finally arriving at his apartment he pushes the door open and his German Shepard, Bear, looks up at him from his fluffy bone shaped bed. Greg looks down at the dog, silently communicating to Bear that Grace wasn’t coming back. Why couldn’t the dog understand? Bear lays back down, his head resting on his paws; Greg’s bitterness left him in a state of consternation.
Walking into his office, Greg stumbles over books and papers left on the ground, invisible in the dark apartment. Without bothering to turn on a light, Greg halfheartedly tries to navigate through the room. Managing to make it to his desk without tripping for a second time that day, Greg rests his hands on his dark oak desk, looking at his black monitors. Three half empty bottles of Everclear, his choice of poison, beg him to release them of burning liquid trapped inside of them. Minutes pass. Reaching into his pocket, Greg pulls out his cell phone. He holds it in his hand, carefully examining the phone without really looking at it. He had received the call fifty-seven hours and forty eight minutes ago – he’d been counting. His fiancée had been visiting her parents for the weekend. She was only supposed to be gone two days, not forever. It is still unclear what happened to make her lose control of the car. “It could have been a simple brake malfunction,” the car dealer had suggested nonchalantly. “It happens occasionally.” Anger rushes through Greg. He suddenly throws the phone as hard as he can at the window overlooking the city. A few cracks grow in the glass, and the phone succumbs to gravity, shattering as it meets the floor. Greg’s eyes follow the lines in the glass, him mind going blank again. The trees outside catch his attention and he finds himself staring back at them. The leaves are a surreal color of light and dark green, undulating in unison – first to the right, then to the left, and then to the right again. Not able to stay still anymore, Greg finds himself almost running out of his apartment, slamming the door behind him.
On the street, more people have come out, becoming cells in the city’s veins. Greg walks with the flow of other living souls not sure of his destination but comforted by the crowed of people walking on either side of him. The people eventually lead him to Lexington Avenue, not far from Central Park. Following a particularly pleasant smell in the air Greg finds himself inside of Oren's Daily Roast – the place he met Grace, his fiancée. The scent of freshly roasted coffee beans soothes mind. He orders a black coffee, saying his name was Matthew – he didn’t want to be Gregory Blake at the moment. No one notices. With his coffee in his hand, Greg leaves the coffee shop.
Taking a stroll down Park Avenue, Greg arrives at Washington Square Park. Resting his legs, Greg finds himself beside the magnificent arch admiring out over the park. Crystal clear water is propelled towards the clouds by the fountain, making arcs as gravity coaxes them back to the ground. Pigeons entertain themselves by flying under the arcs, small drops of water coloring their feathers. Parents sit on the benches, watching their children who are too young for school run around and play, their smiles almost as bright as the climbing sun. Greg proposed to Grace here, on a spring day just the year before. The weather was almost identical – the rich rays mixing with a gentle breeze to create the perfect temperature. Greg finds himself smiling at the fond memories.
The Brooklyn Bridge, the Dakota Apartments, the Empire State building, the Flatiron Building, the World Trade Center, Greg isn’t sure how he managed to see all of them in one day. Even as a native to the city it is still hard to comprehend all the historic importance that lies in one city. Where else do you find an apartment with two beautiful balconies, one terrace and only one hundred feet from touching the edges of Central Park? Where else do you find a Renaissance-esque style skyscraper resembling a cast-iron clothes iron? And as Greg stands at Pier 1, next to the Brooklyn Bridge, he feels the corners of his mouth rising. He sits comfortably on one of the small wooden chairs by the Hudson River. His life will never be the same again. The idea is a fact that will never change. But perhaps his world won’t remain black – the city stays awake in darkness, turning on its lights as the sun grows sleepy. The clouds change into a pink mixed with a tint of light blue, as if a painter used watercolors to create the perfect harmony between the two. The square windows on the buildings that were mirrors for the sun now exhale their own light. The lights on the bridge look like petite stars, guiding the cars along. As the day grows older and the night younger, the cool placid water gives a perfect symmetrical echo of the city skyline. The sun waves a final farewell as the moon peeks the top of its head over the Atlantic Ocean, as if unsure whether or not to come out or go back to bed.
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