Stuck upstairs sick, I heard the roar first, almost like a ferocious chorus from one pissed-off opera. The street got fuller and fuller with shouts and chants,and going to the window I watched for the next forty minutes thousands of people - every age, shape, race, gender, walking, wheeling, being pushed - call for justice.
The cars weren't going anywhere and they weren't happy about it. But all these crotch rocket bikers wound their way to the front. They revved their engines like crazy and borrowed signs from marchers to wave to the never ending pouring of people fed up and incensed.
The 80-year-old in his Birkenstock and cargo shorts exchanged power to the people fist salutes with them and then he stood in front of cars attempting to cross to the other side. Not on his watch. The cars would wait this time; the people would come first. And the bikers, delighted with his 'don't fuck with me' attitude, revved their bikes even more.
And when there were no more marchers, just the police van coming up from behind, the old man stepped aside and the bikers revved even more and burst ahead popping wheelies and zipping down an empty avenue.
MY PRIVATE CONEY presents IT WAS HER NEW YORK, the short stories that accompany the work-in-progress video and photo collection of the same name (myprivateconey.com - media link - IT WAS HER NEW YORK). The stories and the media explore the tender rubble that holds both my mother, Florence's and New York's soul as one disappears into old age and the other into gentrification. All are real observations and/or experiences with very little tall-tale telling.
Except when it makes the story better.
Please visit myprivateconey.com for additional information and sample works.