Steve Perry - Men In Black II.pdf

(1100 KB) Pobierz
ONE
New York, New York. Don't let anyone tell you different: It's all about the out-of-towners.
No man is an island but Manhattan is. Key word:
insular,
meaning a little bit exclusive, meaning tile people
who live here can be particular about who gets in, and who had better stay the hell out.
Ask that friendly cabbie who's driving you around. Go ahead, ask him, about your chances for getting into
this smash-hit Broadway musical, or that red-hot nightclub, or even a taping of the David Letterman show. Just
ask. He could probably use a good laugh—right before he says,
You wanna do
what?
Into
where?
You want it
when?
Yeah, riiiight. Lotsa luck, Tourist.
But hey, don't feel dumb for asking. Nobody expects a lot from an out-of-towner.
Psst.
Want; to know a secret? What the cabbie tells you, fahgeddaboudit. Here's the truth about New York: It's
all
about the out-of-towners. Always has been, right from the start. Always will be.
New York's got a funny effect on folks who come here for a visit. A lot of them wind up spending the rest of
their lives. It's like there's something in the water, besides the plutonium. Something that puts a crazy spin on
the whole evolution thing, the way out-of-towners manage to meta-morphose themselves from tourists, to
transients, to the types who act like they've always had their roots sunk deep into New York City bedrock. Like
they own the place.
That's what you call nerve. That's what you call chutz-pah. That's what you call New York attitude. That's
why you can kick a New Yorker where it hurts, but you can never keep him down.
The first significant bunch of out-of-towners to hit the Big Apple were the Dutch crowd headed by Peter
Minuit. He's the man who had the bright idea of buying the island of Manhattan from the locals for a bunch of
baubles, bangles, beads, and gewgaws, stuff on a par with those "genuine" Rolex watches you can buy out of
an attache case in Herald Square, or the Theater District, or somewhere along Fifth Avenue, three steps ahead
of the cops.
The whole schmear set the Dutch East India Company back a few guilders, which broke down to about
twenty-four bucks American after you did the math and allowed for the exchange rate. Sneaky Pete probably
figured he'd got a real steal. In a way, he had.
As for the Native American sellers, sure, maybe they could've scared up a better price for Manhattan if they'd
posted it on eBay, but whaddayagonnado? Right place, wrong time. Besides, it turned out that these Native
Ameri-can guys, New York's first documented real estate moguls, actually belonged to the Canarsie tribe, which
meant they maybe had the right to sell off part of Brooklyn, a little of Queens, but absolutely no legal claims to
Manhattan whatsoever. Not that it stopped them from selling it to the Dutch anyhow, thus kicking off another
grand old New York custom, as both parties in the deal walked away from it, each one convinced he'd played
the other for a sucker.
Twenty-four bucks' worth of twinkly things may not seem like a heck of a lot these days. That's because it
isn't. Twenty-four bucks won't even buy a seat on one of those rolling tourist traps, the double-decker
sight-seeing buses. Straight from London, they're ubiquitous in Manhattan: Rain or shine, day or night,
summer, winter, spring, and fall they go looping up and down the island showing off the big buildings and the
bright lights for the out-of-towners.
The best seats are on the top deck. Sure, unwary tourists are going to get soaked if it's raining, freeze if it's
cold or suffer from sunstroke if it's summertime, but when they go back home, they'll boast and brag about how
they had the best damn view of the best damn city in the world.
Of course, not everybody likes to make his way around Manhattan on the bus. There are alternatives
available to everyone, natives and out-of-towners alike. There are the subways and regular buses for people
who don't think money grows on trees, taxis and car services and limos for the high-ticket crowd. Some folks
even swear by skateboards, in-line skates, and their poor cousins—the common or garden-variety roller skate. In a
pinch you can even get where you're going by what you call Shank's Mare.
Don't let the name fool you, though. That's one mare that doesn't have anything to do with the horse-drawn
hansom cabs that go clopping through Central Park or park outside the Plaza Hotel. Naaaah, it's just French
for "walking."
Tourists who get tired of seeing the sights by land can take to the water, sign up for one of those tour boats
that circles the island or do it on the cheap by grabbing a quick ride on the Staten Island Ferry.
What really drives people crazy, so to speak, is the way some people drive even after they've hit the Big
Apple. It's like it's open season on pedestrians. It's a mystery why people bother with cars at all, what with
the cost of garages, alternate-side-of-the-street parking, and all the other ways to get around New York, Why
would even an out-of-towner want to get into the driver's seat at all?
Of course, some of them do it because that's how they got here in the first place, behind the wheel of their
own personal vehicles. And if they sideswipe everything that gets in the way, from squirrels to parked cars to
little old ladies, they don't seem to give it a moment's notice. Take it from the natives, they're the worst.
The sleek, swift starship was gold and glittering. Deadly, alluring, and in its own way beautiful.
It careened at breathtaking speed through the star-filled blackness of the void spreading carnage wherever it
went. Unsuspecting worlds, many of them inhabited exploded into lifeless debris under the merciless assault
from its weapons. Fire burst gleefully from its guns, leaving a trail of debris and chaos in its wake.
But from its purposeful path, it was apparent that none of these unfortunate planets was the intended target,
that its pilot was seeking another, unknown destination. Picking up speed it streaked toward a single star, past
the outermost, frozen planets. Past the gas giant, and its ringed neighbor, ever onward.
Finally, almost imperceptibly, it slowed as it approached the Third Planet from the sun, and veered to drop
down through the atmosphere. Strangely enough, it easily found a parking spot—a landing site in a place green
and leafy and serene.
A tree grows in Brooklyn, but in the heart of New York City's famed Financial District a flower bloomed. In
the middle of the night, in a section of the city where the hustle and bustle of countless feet was certain to
trample any unfenced bit of greenery to a sticky pulp, this exquisitely formed daintily colored blossom
protruded from the sidewalk, its delicate stalk and velvety petals nodding and dancing slowly on the waves of
warm air wafting up out of the steam grate where it grew.
It was as attractive as it was utterly inexplicable.
A black Mercedes screeched to a stop at the curb by the steam grate where the voracious flower bloomed. It
was too bad that the street was completely empty of passing stockbrokers at that hour; the appearance of that
sleek, expensive, state-of-the-art vehicle would have stirred up a lot more appreciation in their covetous
corporate hearts than the sight of a thousand flowers.
The Mercedes's doors swung open and two men got out. One of them had the wholesome, clean-cut, corn-fed
looks of a Big Ten linebacker, the kind whom college sports-journalists liked to tout as "all-American,"
whatever that means. The other man, an African American, was nowhere near as brawny, but the way he carried
himself conveyed the feeling that there was plenty of strength in that slim, agile body. They wore identical
black suits, simply styled impeccably fitted and black shoes buffed to a blinding shine.
The thin one got out of car on the driver's side. Maybe he wasn't carrying the same amount of muscle as his
partner, but he didn't need it any more than he needed a badge or a nameplate or any other outward sign to tell
the world that he was in charge. His authority showed in the way he moved the way he stood the way he spoke,
in everything about him, down to the slightest lift of an eyebrow.
His gleaming black shoes clicked out a crisp beat as he walked across the pavement to the steam grate,
followed closely by his beefier partner.
"No fancy stuff," the first man said laying down the law as he walked. "No heroics. Be cool. By the book this
time, Tee. Okay?"
"So what you're saying, Jay, is—" his partner ventured.

Plik z chomika:

Inne pliki z tego folderu:

Inne foldery tego chomika:

Zgłoś jeśli naruszono regulamin