I left my apartment on West 44th at 4:45 a.m., jogging north up Broadway, 134 blocks, six and a half miles, aiming to cross the George Washington Bridge at sunrise. In the wee hours of Sunday morning the city is a secret, something you’re not supposed to be watching, an R movie as a kid you’ve snuck back into the den to see. Those who borrow the street, the tourists, the commuters, the suits, the slackers, the gazers, the bar-hoppers, the shoppers, the diners, they are all gone. What’s left is the resin, the always present film at the bottom of the coffee pot. This is the city after darkest night has settled and 'the city' has gone home. At 45th St. three cop cars surrounded a red sports car. Behind it was a scrappier sedan. The owner of the sports car opened his wallet and passed several bills to the owner of the sedan. The cops watched.
At 49th one of a group of five shadowy men called out, “that’s good calisthenics you.”
At 57th a man whose face was hidden under a cape’s hood stumbled across the street looking like a deranged prophet.
