Buildings come down, buildings go up. Bars and restaurants close and reopen. I walk without my glasses and see nothing; hard of hearing I hear nothing.
Not Nick. Eyes like the hawks he studies, Nick sees all, knows all.
“See that soup kitchen,” he glances in the direction of a long line of supplicants on 28th Street while barreling down 9th Ave in Gottfried’s delivery truck. “There’s a guy at Sony making $1,200 a week going to a soup kitchen for free meals!”
Nick, who’s been a main man at Gottfried’s since 1998, started here after walking into the Sony Building location with magazines to deliver--eventually endearing himself to Kenny.
“See these cars and pickup trucks with the tinted windows in the front?” Nick asks. We’re now in Chelsea, rounding the Chelsea Market, to be exact. We have a furniture pickup there, from a fashion shoot.
“It’s illegal to have tinted windows in the front,” Nick says. “These cars belong to prison guards. See the ones with the side-view mirrors pushed in? Same thing. It means the drivers are on duty.”
The drivers are prison guards, on duty. They’re all from Westchester, he explains.
“They’re changing shifts now. See there’s one,” he points at a man with short hair and a black backpack. I ask how he knows.
“The pack,” he says. “There’s another.”
He points out three more. They all look alike.
I ask how they get away with the tinted windows.
“Who’s there to tell them otherwise?” he says, laughing. I laugh, too.
We circle the block and come to the Chelsea Market loading dock. Eyes like a hawk, Nick focuses on a man in a parked car across the street.
“You have to have a card,” he says. I wait for more information, which is directly forthcoming.
“See the policeman?” Yes, I respond, as a policeman approaches the car. “Look. The guy has a PBA card. Whenever you have a card, you won’t get a ticket.”
Sure enough, the cop exchanges a few words with the guy, then walks away. Patrolmen's Benevolent Association. Not to be confused with Professional Bowlers Association. I have a friend who has one of those.
We back our truck into the loading dock.
“You know, you can walk all the way through Chelsea Market from Ninth Avenue to Tenth Avenue,” Nick said. Of course, I did not know that.
We go to the freight elevator with the dolly and blankets, for which to retrieve and return the $10,000 book shelf we dropped off at The Space on sixth floor two days ago. I don’t know what country the delivery dock manager is from, and I have no idea why he’s telling me to google to get the elevator.
That’s because what he’s really saying is that someone on one of the three Google floors has left the freight elevator door open—hence, we’re stuck waiting 10 minutes until someone can be contacted and told to close it. It’s not advertised, I learn, but Google’s New York headquarters is right here.
Elevator down, we go up to The Space, wrap up the case and wheel it back, bring it down, roll it into the truck and we’re off. We drive past a line of tinted cars and pickup trucks, their side-view mirrors pushed in.
“That’s the prison, right there,” Nick says, pointing to a building across Tenth Avenue, with windows on the first few floors, none above.
“They’re not going to give you a view!” he says, laughing at me. He expected the question and answered it unasked.
“You know, you can walk all the way through Chelsea Market from Ninth Avenue to Tenth Avenue,” Nick said. Of course, I did not know that.
We go to the freight elevator with the dolly and blankets, for which to retrieve and return the $10,000 book shelf we dropped off at The Space on sixth floor two days ago. I don’t know what country the delivery dock manager is from, and I have no idea why he’s telling me to google to get the elevator.
That’s because what he’s really saying is that someone on one of the three Google floors has left the freight elevator door open—hence, we’re stuck waiting 10 minutes until someone can be contacted and told to close it. It’s not advertised, I learn, but Google’s New York headquarters is right here.
Elevator down, we go up to The Space, wrap up the case and wheel it back, bring it down, roll it into the truck and we’re off. We drive past a line of tinted cars and pickup trucks, their side-view mirrors pushed in.
“That’s the prison, right there,” Nick says, pointing to a building across Tenth Avenue, with windows on the first few floors, none above.
“They’re not going to give you a view!” he says, laughing at me. He expected the question and answered it unasked.
He suddenly rolls down his window and yells at a man on a bicycle. I don’t know what he’s saying; Nick’s Jamaican accent sometimes requires translation.
“He’s a messenger,” he says. “I know him. He’s from Guyana.”
He asks if I have a bike, and laughs again when I say no.
“Birds have wings, we have feet!” he says. “You don’t have a bike? You’re too funny!”
Nick, who does have a bike, laughs again. I laugh, too, but not because I don’t have a bike. I laugh because if I did have a bike, I’m not sure I’d no how to ride it—even if it is as simple as riding a bike.
I say nothing to Nick as we roll up Tenth.
“He’s a messenger,” he says. “I know him. He’s from Guyana.”
He asks if I have a bike, and laughs again when I say no.
“Birds have wings, we have feet!” he says. “You don’t have a bike? You’re too funny!”
Nick, who does have a bike, laughs again. I laugh, too, but not because I don’t have a bike. I laugh because if I did have a bike, I’m not sure I’d no how to ride it—even if it is as simple as riding a bike.
I say nothing to Nick as we roll up Tenth.
--jim bessman
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