Alone and Together

It was yet another chilly day as I weaved and strode across the concourse at 34^th Street-Penn Station. I was initially exasperated by the disorderly order-far too many roaming Romans- but then it occurred to me that the unpredictability of movement was humanizing. Given the increased regulation of public space, it was good to be able to drift, walk outside the line, and engage in watchful reverie. Slow down, I thought and drift.

As I approached the steps to the uptown 8^th Avenue local platform, I heard a pan man on his tenor pan doing an electronic bass augmented rendition of Bob Marley's Natural Mystic, and came to a halt. I suddenly found myself confronted with an assault wrapped around an invitation. The assault came from an alliance between architecture and the scent of the passage where the pan man played. This particular passage way is a very efficient conduit for the effluent- tinged air emanating from the bowels of the subway and other odious precincts. Wherever you are on the 8^th Avenue subway line in midtown, you are reminded that, probably right beneath your feet, there is a vast reservoir of shit, probably unprocessed, marinating, and a rankling reminder of our organic and expulsive nature. The air was also cold and accompanied by trash, making for a space that one traversed as quickly as possible.

And yet I had stopped. In addition to fetid air, the passage was a sublime incubator of sound, an acoustically friendly performance space. It was often used by talented musicians, usually older Black men, who were in that space but not of it. I often accepted the invitation to listen, as I enjoyed the artistry even as it seemed to desensitize me to the nostril wrinkling odors and the dusty chill.

The pan man was tall, tattooed, and wearing a tee shirt struggling to contain his muscles. His smile was generous and his sweat-flavored motion was one with the music. As an adolescent in Guyana I had often lingered, watching the rhythm of the pl