The
Center of the World - 262
Hal Wastes His Wages
July 29, 2008
As the steamy brick oven that is Hoboken in July bakes at 95 degrees, a cool
breeze is kind enough to make its way upriver and ventilate the lonely little
pier jutting out from Sinatra Drive. At its entrance, a dutiful Hispanic woman
begrudgingly stands her post with a Sabrett cart. Any other day this spot would
be a pushcart’s bonanza, serving as the only source for provisions on this
commercially isolated but well-traveled strip along the west bank of the Hudson.
But aside from a few intrepid souls at the skate park and some Croc-clad clown
in a boonie hat pushing a stroller, the heat keeps the otherwise steady stream
of patrons away.
That clown in the boonie hat is none other than yours truly, standing at the
helm of my boy’s vessel with its sail-like canvas shade unfurled. We enjoy
watching the numerous forms of traffic along the Hudson River—at least I enjoy
watching it, and thankfully for now the boy is far too young to formulate the
words “Daddy, I’m bored.” We sit for a timeless stretch and stare at the
ferries, barges, tugs, fishing boats, sailboats, pleasure yachts, jet skis and
kayaks. As all these crafts slog their way in, out or around the harbor, a
solitary cormorant casually skims across the water from New Jersey to New York
in no more than fifteen seconds, and I wonder if he has any appreciation for the
amount of effort his human counterparts put into such a commute.
Directly across the river, I have the perfect view of perfect views. The pier
sits dead even with a corner of the Empire State Building as its shimmering
sibling, the Chrysler Building, stands off to the left. A slight bend in the
river positions the pier such that the George Washington to the north and the
Verrazano Bridge to the south are in full view, and I can’t help but get an
egocentric feeling that I’m standing at the center of the world. To my left and
beyond the GWB are The Adirondacks—where I was born, The Erie Canal—where I was
raised, and the rest of North America. To my right the Verrazano looms as a
gateway to the rest of the world.
Then I look down and I see my son. I’m convinced he has grown in the mere
moments while we’ve sat here. I wonder which direction he’ll go, as it’s all
laid out right there in front of him for the taking. I wonder what he’ll make of
this scene when he’s old enough to appreciate it. I wonder if he’ll appreciate
it at all, or if he’ll just take it for granted as I did the various vistas of
my youth.
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Christopher M. Halleron, freelance writer/bitter bartender, writes a biweekly
humor column for The Hudson Current and websites in the New York Metro area. He
spends a lot of his time either in front of or behind the bar in Hoboken, New
Jersey where his tolerance for liquor grows stronger as his tolerance for
society is eroded on a daily basis. Feel free to drop him a line at
c_halleron@yahoo.com
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