Dark

The security guard doesn't want to let me go up.

The super's evacuating the building, he says. I'm not supposed to let anybody in.

I think my fiancée's up there, I tell him.

That stairway's pitch black. No emergency lights. The super, he's saying Everybody Out.

I've got a light, I say. Please, I say. I'll talk to the super. I'll tell him.

The security guard hesitates for a minute, then steps away from the stairwell door. You see the super, he says, you tell him I said no.

Will do, I say, on my way up the stairs.

And they ARE pitch black. I've got a tiny, incredibly bright halogen light on my keychain that's just become the most useful thing I've ever owned, and I feel like I'm spelunking, except in the opposite direction.

Six flights later, I run into the flashlight-waving super, who immediately tells me to go back down, he's evacuating the building. I recite my line. He tries a couple more times. Then, realizing it's not going to work, he starts directing a couple other people down and pretends not to notice me as I keep climbing.

Another six flights, and I get to her floor, only to discover that she's gone. You missed her by about fifteen minutes, her boss says, which means I must have missed her on the ground level by less than five.

Back at Tekserve, twelve flights down and ten blocks over, they're gathered around a battery-powered radio in the growing dimness, laughing at the DJ's on one of the local rap stations, surrounded by dark computer screens. No one there's seen a girl with long red hair, but they promise to tell her I've headed home if they do. As I head back out, I hear one of the owners asks if anyone needs some cash, which reminds me why I love working there.

Sixth Avenue is a mess, with traffic at a standstill and the sidewalks packed beyond capacity. Fifth is a bit lighter, with people who aren't cops standing in every intersection directing traffic. The cops are all somewhere else. A woman walking in front of me says something about them bin Laden, that great ghost haunting our dream house, like he's some modern-day Dracula who announces his presence with an all-encompassing darkness and not just a hairy old guy in a turban hiding in a cave. In Union Square, they're all lying in the grass, and there's a pop of a champagne bottle. Then I get to Third Avenue, and I'm following the flood.

I don't really think about anything again until I realize, (a), I'm on the corner of 7th Street, a stone's throw from McSorley's, and (b), I'm really, really tired.

In McSorley's, the taps have just gone down, and they're throwing bottles of their nominal ale in water-filled sinks to cool them. I hope it's cold enough, the bartender says as he slides one over. We're doing our best.

It's not cold, but it's cool enough, and there's a fair share of people to drink it; the tables are all taken, and there's a good number standing at the bar, more in the shadows in the back. The sun is still bright through the windows, sihlouetting the people in front and making the brown bottles glisten. A table in the corner opens up, and I sit down. Flip-flops aren't made for hikes or stairs. My feet hurt. The beer is warm, but good, and I sit and read a little and get my thoughts straight again, and then I go before I get too comfortable.

A couple blocks down, William, from work, is standing on the sidewalk next to a boombox that's playing jazz. William asks how you're feeling, not how you're doing, and he listens to the answer. We greet and shake hands, and I ask him if lives around here. He says he doesn't, he's just checking things out, and I want to ask him how he ended up in the East Village with a boombox playing jazz, and why, but it's getting late, and I've finally been able to get my fiancée on the phone, and now I want to get back to her as soon as possible. So I tell him I'll see him tomorrow, or on Monday if not, and I keep going.

One of the roadways on the Manhattan Bridge looks pretty empty, and I start for it, but hear the policemen directing traffic to the pedestrian walkway, so I head there instead. The walkway is jammed like a cattle car, and first I try to pass on the right, make it through the slow-moving throng, but eventually I give up and just stick to the left in an easy pace and watch the sunset light the Brooklyn Bridge in red hues, the mass of people on its walkway and roadways moving like a river.

It's full dark by the time I'm through Brooklyn Heights and into Cobble Hill, dark like it doesn't get in the city. Too dark to see faces or street signs or cracks in the sidewalk, and the lights of cars headed the other way down Clinton Street blind in their passing. By the time I get to my building in Carroll Gardens, I can only see the faintest shadow of someone sitting on my stoop, but I know who it is anyway.

Later, we go for another walk, but this one is unhurried, with no real purpose, and we marvel at the stars that we never get to see.