Warday

As soon as we pass the Cloisters, the bridge looms up on the right. I see that there are long festoons of vines, some of them scarlet with autumn, hanging from the cables and girders. The truck begins to rattle and bump along as we pass the bridge and enter the old West Side Highway. At this point Jim and I sit down on the wooden bench at the front. We hunch forward, our hands between our knees, bracing ourselves as best we can. The truck growls and stumbles on. Soon the road is pitted, cracked, and we pass over long stretches of grass. Up the side streets I can see rusting cars, long loops of wire between the buildings, and rows and rows of dark windows.

Our mission is to reach Columbus Circle, where we are to be met by a guide who is, of all things, an employee of the City of New York.

We turn off the highway at Seventy-ninth Street and take the cleared route to our destination. I realize that the streets are literally choked with abandoned vehicles of all kinds—cars, trucks, buses, and an occasional piece of Are equipment standing out from the jumble. Broadway has had a central path created between the cars. There are vines everywhere, vines and shrubs and things like stinkweed and dandelions growing in every available crack. Some buildings are glutted with plants, others are empty. I realize why: certain species of potted plants grew and seeded, and expanded their dominion.

Then we pass a magnificent ruin. I recognize the Ansonia. Its copper-sheathed roof has been salvaged. There has also been a scarring fire. The Pioneer supermarket on the first floor is a blackened hole laced by flame-red vines. As we pass there is a fusillade of furious barking. It is low and aggressive and powerful. The soldiers nearest the rear of the truck finger their carbines. “No good shots,” somebody says as we pull into Columbus Circle.

“Shit.”

The Ansonia lingers in my mind. I can imagine Florenz Ziegfeld coming down the steps to his enormous Packard, afloat in champagne laughter.

There is an olive drab Chevy Consensus parked in front of the New York Coliseum. But for the lack of glass in the entrance and the grass spurting up through the sidewalk, the structure looks almost unchanged. The marquee reads, 56^TH NY AUTOC 18-3. I remember the New York Auto Show.

A young woman gets out of the Consensus. We climb down from our perch in the truck. Across the street, the vast glut of Central Park roars with birds, a furious jungle just touched by autumn. The sidewalks around it are completely gone to vegetation, as are the abandoned cars choking Fifty-ninth Street. There are vines well up some of the elegant buildings that line Central Park South.

“I’m Jenny Bell,” the woman says, shielding her eyes from the bright morning sun. She wears a heavy tunic closed by a web belt.

There is what looks like a long-barreled .357 Magnum slung on her right hip. Her left hip bears a big, curved knife. She is wearing leather trousers and heavy boots. She carries a canteen, a backpack, a heavy-duty flashlight, and at least twenty feet of rope and a selection of climbing equipment. She does not smile, she offers no more words of explanation. She is simply there.

We introduce ourselves and get a quick handshake. “Let’s go,” she says. We leave our soldiers, who have instructions to pick us up here at 5:00 P.M. The Consensus is cramped. I sit in front because I can’t manipulate my pad and pencil in the back seat. Jim, with that fancy recorder of his. has to endure the confinement of the hard bench in the back.

“I understand that you’re a city employee,” I say to the young, expressionless face. The beautiful face. How old was this girl on Warday? Eighteen is my guess.

“That’s right.”

“So there’s still a city government?”

“That’s right.”

Jim shifts in his seat. “Is there any particular reason you won’t talk, or are you just being a hardass?”

The girl drives in silence, bouncing us down Broadway. A spring has opened up in the middle of the street between Fifty-seventh and Fifty-sixth. We are forced nearly to the sidewalk to avoid the bed of the little creek it has made. I see crystal water dancing among the skeletons of electrical conduit and pipe. It is young water, wearing and active. The stream goes on for blocks, finally disappearing into the gutters at the corner of Forty-fifth. I remember from some book about New York in the early days that an oak tree grew where Broadway now intersects Forty-second Street. A snatch of song echoes in my head—“those dancin’ feet…” The melody continues until we reach our first stop.

When I start to get out, the girl reaches over and locks my door. “Wait,” she says. She steps into the middle of Times Square.

Her gun is out. She holds it in both hands. It is a heavy weapon, too heavy for her to aim accurately any other way.