a streetcar named 3321

when i visited all those cranes and then strolled on down the cobbled street to the fairway, i didn't have a clue what was waiting. i had forgotten how close the place was to the statue of liberty, how anyone could just look out and see manhattan sitting there all shiny and tall. my brain was all abuzz with so much pretty sprawled out there like it was nothing, like it didn't demand notice. i was giddy with cranes and some sort of public transportation graveyard i'd walked past on the uneven stone street, was thinking about the shiny black harlem line bus that looked more like a '56 cadillac than like a bus, chrome streaming off its sides like you wouldn't believe. i had just walked past the statue of liberty, watched people walking by with little kids and none of them looking at any of this and then i turned onto the back patio of the fairway.

it is sitting right there, right in front of me. it looks like it has been waiting, like it is expecting me to stop by. and when i see it i yell out, "oh!" just a little, sort of quiet, but people sitting on the patio eating sandwiches turn to see if i am okay. i can't quite figure out what it is doing there on a stretch of pavement between the back patio of the fairway where people are eating lunch and the ferry dock to manhattan. nobody told me about any of this. but when the people see that i am not hurt, they go back to visiting and to their meals and this is the thing i cannot understand. there is a streetcar sitting there not more than a few feet away from any of them, pale green with wings on the front of it like mercury. and sure the front window is gone and the metal is pitted with rust but it is something i would not hesitate to hop on if it went sailing by me and stopped. i would run to catch it. and i do not run for anything. i cannot pull my eyes back into my head.

the streetcar is tall and i can see some sort of tropical plant leaning in a back window, peering over the very last wide bench. i walk on around the side, toward the ocean. the breeze swoops in salty and warm. the sea birds are yelling. there are three streetcars all end to end, in a soft curve on the pavement. i do not see what i will later learn are the trolley tracks below them that got them where they are now. but i see them standing there, ringed with nothing more than those metal parade barricades and a couple of signs saying danger. i am the only person leaning in the doors and peering through windows. staring danger straight in the face.

i consider hopping over a barricade and wandering around inside. there is nothing inside i can't see from where i am, but i'd like to see it up close. it is noon. i'm pretty obvious. but nobody seems to see me like nobody seems to see these old trolley cars resting here. if i went inside, i might become entirely invisible. or maybe then they would finally see me. what is that crazy woman doing in that trolley car? doesn't she see the signs? i figure having folks yell at me through mouthfuls of food might somehow cramp the adventure i have fallen into so i just keep walking and taking photos.

along the back of the cars, on the fairway side, i see where the plants are coming from. they are the border between the patio and the cars. a protective layer between people having a nice time and some huge relics nobody has the cash to move. bright and thick-leaved things, the plants have grown up next to the cars but unlike the people eating lunch, they seem interested. sidling up against the metal and glass. they are like me. they want to get in there and wander around a little.