We walked up to the highway underpass and caught a cross town bus to the subway stop at 82nd. street and Broadway late that afternoon. A brief wait saw us on a local train heading downtown. I allowed myself a smile that I chose not to share with Birgit as we found two empty seats among the crowd of commuters heading homewards. Many, many years ago, my first experience with the Manhattan subway system had been sort of embarrassing. It was my first trip to New York alone, and I’d been trying to get to Greenwich Village from Times Square. I’d boarded an express train by mistake, and watched as we flew by the stop I wanted. I never did really figure out where I’d ended up, only that it had been miles from my intended destination and that I’d had a hellish time figuring out how to retrace my way back.
“Hey B, what do you think? Here’s your first ride on a New York subway. My plan is to hook up with Rob, have a couple of drinks, and maybe get something to eat. Then we can catch a ride with him back to the marina, and collect the cash for the “E”. I did not want to carry it around with us on the subway so I left it stashed on La Forza. Rob’s probably going to invite us to a rave in Brooklyn, but it won’t get going until well after midnight, so I’m going to say “Thanks, but we have to get underway early tomorrow.” The rave scene here is usually pretty funky with lots of kids with glow sticks, and the music is always really loud techno crap.
“That’s fine with me, Jimmy.”, Birgit replied. “I’m glad I’m not alone here. Some of these people look pretty strange.” She was indicating a homeless man several seats down and across the aisle from us with a subtle uplift of her chin, who was dressed in a tattered drab olive army coat and wearing trousers with a suspicious dark stain at the crotch. I was very glad we were far enough away that we couldn’t smell him.
“Yeah, they do. The subway is ok during the day as long as you know where you are going. I avoid sitting near people who look “off”, and I never make eye contact with anyone. It’s a sad commentary on life here, but it’s the best way to stay safe.”
The subway car emptied out of more and more passengers with each successive stop as we rattled along towards SOHO. “Hey, sweetie. Enough about all that stuff. We’ll be all done with it by tonight. I’m really looking forward to this trip up the Hudson. It should be beautiful this time of year. The leaves on the trees all change to brilliant colors in the Fall, particularly the maples. It will get more and more spectacular the further north we go. The furthest I’ve ever traveled up the Hudson is to Bear Mountain State Park. Going all the way to Toronto will be an adventure!”
“What’s our route?”, asked Birgit. “I’ve only got a vague idea of the Northeast topography.”
“Well, the easiest thing to get familiar with that is to check out the waterway guide in the chart table on board, but here’s the general idea. It’s about five hundred miles from here to Toronto. First we head up the Hudson to the state capitol in Albany, then take the Erie Canal to Three Rivers in upstate New York. There we branch off onto the Oswego Canal to Lake Ontario. The canals should be fun. There will be several locks we’ll have to negotiate, and a fellow I talked to in Miami said they offer some great views. Apparently some of the canal locks really lift you up quite a ways. Once we get to Oswego, it’s a long overnight trip to make the crossing over to Toronto. I’m hoping the weather is good. That same fellow told me he’s seen some nasty seas crossing the Great Lakes. Unlike ocean swells, I gather they can get really short and steep when the wind picks up for a few days. We’ll lay over in Oswego for twenty four hours or so to clean up the boat before we deliver it in Canada. I’ve been told that transiting the river and canals will leave brown stains on the waterline, so we’ll also be scrubbing that clean by using the dinghy. I’m guessing that will take us at least half a day.”
With that, the subway car screeched around one final turn and stopped at our destination. Both us us were blinking in the sunlight as we emerged from the subway station. The address Rob wanted to meet us at was less than a block away on Spring street. Manhattan is rife with acronyms like SOHO, which describes the area south of Houston street where we were headed, or Tribeca, which means the triangle below Canal street. SOHO is a part of the city just loaded with trendy art galleries, design studios, and ultra hip bars.
We turned the corner onto Spring and began checking street numbers for the address Rob had given me. The sidewalks were crowded with what New Yorkers refer to sarcastically as the “bridge and tunnel” people. Each weekend sees an influx of shoppers from New Jersey and Long Island spending time checking out the trendier parts of Manhattan.
“There it is!”, exclaimed Birgit, pointing towards a storefront across the street. “What is it?” The signage above said SOMA in big blocky raised letters, but did not look particularly welcoming or give any indication of what one might find within.
“Beats me!”, I replied. “If I was forced to guess, I’d venture it is some kind of club. Let’s go find out.”
Pushing open the heavy wooden door revealed a bright airy room filled with sunlight emanating from a large skylight set into the roof fully forty-five feet overhead. There was a staircase of black ironwork set against the right hand wall, looking like it lead up to some sort of loft, as we could see a balcony overhead that extended some twenty feet into the room, and could hear trance emanating from speakers somewhere up above. The main room, where we were standing, had a highly polished wood floor with lots of chrome and glass tables scattered about, paired with similar chairs sporting overstuffed brightly colored cushions. There were a few people seated here and there. I spied Rob sitting alone at the bar that ran along the left side of the room. He gave us a casual wave, and beckoned for us to join him at the bar.
We wended our way through the tables to be greeted enthusiastically with “Yo, Jimmy. Long time, no see. This must be the beautiful Birgit I’ve heard so much about.” This last bit earned him a smile, and a “Hi” from Birgit.
“Hey Rob. It’s great to see ya again. This place looks like it was an old factory or something. What’s up here?”
“You’re spot on with that guess.”, Rob replied. “It was an old sweat shop for years and years. The loft was where they stored bolts of fabric, and down here was all row after row of sewing machines. They did piecework for small custom dress designers before all that type of work got shipped overseas to take advantage of cheap labor. Two guys I know bought out the lease and run it as a chillout club for house music fanatics. So far, they’ve been able to get around the food and liquor laws by operating as a club. They just add on a buck to your bill for a membership to make it quasi-legal. Come on, and I’ll give you the quick tour, and then we’ll have a bite to eat with a couple of drinks. The kitchen’s pretty good, and serves lots of tapas type dishes. Plus, the drinks are cheap by New York prices. Since you left the New York club scene, there’s now a party going on somewhere in the city twenty-four hours a day. This place gives house “heads” a spot to relax, and I think these guys are on to somthing. I do sound for their DJ’s a couple of days each week.”
Rob led us up the stairs to the loft area. As I’d surmised, the balcony overlooked the main floor below. The loft was furnished only with a few couches and piles of soft cushions here and there. There were about fifteen or twenty people up there, all listening to the DJ spinning trance. The odor of marijuana hung heavy in the air. As we headed back down to the main floor, someone turned on the lights as the room darkened with the setting sun.
Birgit and I both ordered Mojitos and left the food ordering to Rob. While we were waiting for it to arrive, Rob asked, “I assume you didn’t bring anything down here on the subway?”
I replied, “Nope, I figured we could catch a ride with you back to the marina before you had to head over to Brooklyn. I didn’t want to be carrying that stuff all over New York with me. We’ve got to take off for Toronto early in the morning to deliver this yacht, so we’ll have to call it a night early this time.”
“Good thinking.”, was Rob’s reply. “I’ve got your cash stashed behind the bar. We can head up there in a little while. What the hell?” I followed his gaze towards the sole window looking out onto the street. A big box truck was pulling up in front with flashing blue lights. Lettering on the side announced that it was a New York City Mobile Command Post. As we watched, the back doors flew open and a half dozen uniformed policemen piled out. Simultaneously, we could hear a thunderous knocking from the rear entrance.
“Shit! It’s the Gestapo come to raid us!”, exclaimed Rob. “Just sit tight, cooperate with them, and don’t offer anything. It’ll be a hassle and they’ll be a pain in the ass, but this may take a while.”
What unfolded over the next hour or so was controlled chaos, and I could not suppress the frisson of anxiety I felt sitting by and watching as everyone in the club was compelled to empty their pockets and handbags under the watchful eyes of two narcotics detectives, ourselves included. A dozen of them were removed in handcuffs and spirited away to be processed for possession of various controlled substances. These were the forces of law and order whose rules Birgit and I were conspiring to flout in a big way in less than an hour or so as soon as were free to leave. A crowd of locals had gathered outside on the sidewalk to gawk at the spectacle, and to speculate on just what was going on. Eventually, we were given permission to depart with a caution about being present where illegal drugs were found. Wandering down the street to the nearest alley, we found Rob waiting for us behind the wheel of a nondescript white Ford Econoline van.
As soon as we were settled in our seats, he pulled out onto the street to head over the the West Side and up alongside the river to the Boat Basin on 79th. Rob commented, “That was a colossal waste of time, but I guess it was inevitable. They’ve got to justify the time and money for those fancy trucks, and SOMA was a target they were bound to hit sooner or later. I just hope they don‘t close the place down for good.”
