It was 1:35 on a seasonably cool August afternoon.
Not an ideal time to go outside.
I haven’t had one of those assuring moments in months.
Jacob, a neighbor and friend went out weeks ago and never returned.
The eighty-one-year-old ex-engineer went out to proudly show off his new wheelchair. “Just to pick up a few things,” he mentioned as I sat on my Horatio Street stoop in the West Village.
Maybe it was the time of day that cursed Jacob, or the weather had something to do with his disappearance. I’ve always believed weather is a mask for a more subtle, less transparent evil. Not the world ending type, but there is a subtle malevolence if you grasp its unpredictable behavior. I once wrote a brilliant paper on the subject.
It would have been well received, if it was ever published. My super gave it three thumbs-up. Arnie, my bookie, liked it, I think because he didn’t want to lose one of his best customers.
Named after General Horatio Gates, a British-born American general in the Revolutionary War, and resident on the block at the time of its naming, he was famous for his pivotal role in the decisive American victory at the Battle of Saratoga 1777.
Placed in the West Village, Horatio Street is the heart of the village, uniting the Meatpacking District and Chelsea. A glamorous address among the downtown scene, Horatio Street boasts historic addresses, great shopping, and beautiful scenery. The legendary novelist, critic, and activist James Baldwin lived at 81 Horatio Street, which inspired his pioneering novel Another Country.
Clearly, I’m not a famous resident. Hard to imagine what I would do with fame. Guess it depends on how I achieved that distinction. I’m just tired. More tired recently but nothing worth fussing over.
***
It’s nearing three o’clock. Almost time for the Sara Show. Sara Kennedy, who insisted her heritage dated to one of old Jack Kennedy’s indiscretions, will march herself down the two-mile length of Horatio Street, a small child’s drum wrapped to her prominent fifty-eight-year-old waist chanting, “I am great, I am fine. I am just absolutely divine,” then, “I am keen, I am swell, you can all go to hell.” A scattering of familiar applause from the residents of this legendary stretch of the meat packing district of the city with a splatter of appreciation from the usual late-summer tourists.
At the end of the brief street she will stop, remove her drum, and whip out a deck of cards and play solitaire on the closest stoop for the rest of the afternoon. She means well. Really doesn’t disturb anyone and often brings candy for the kids playing strip stickball in the street.
Last August, Henry Bitterman bought a kid’s drum on Amazon, strapped it to his sixty-year-old bulging waist, and started down Horatio. One of the firefighters in District Nine Station found out, passed along the information to a neighbor in my walk-up who alerted the rest of the tenants on the street.
When Bitterman was halfway down the street, a dozen neighbors closed in around him, ripped the drum away, and pummeled him with sweet potatoes. It was brutal. Ugly. He fell within seconds, looked up, pointing to three flying saucers hovering a thousand feet above.
Phones took photos. The press picked up on it and announced the planet was being invaded. It was the third siting this summer and the outpouring of the curious just wasn’t there. The saucers flew away, many believed because they received a less than thunderous outpouring of recognition. Or maybe, they concluded, Horatio Street didn’t live up to its reputation.
Catherine Hellman was said to live on Horatio Street too, or maybe that was a myth. It was said she believed if you looked between 34 and 36 Horatio at the right day of the right year and the right time of that day and from a peculiar angle, you could see between these two four-story walk-ups, a vast open plain, and beyond that a world that never touched the ground.
I saw an old turn-of-the-century photo of her. Beautiful. Poised. A throwback to when femininity was the hallmark of heritage and class.
I’ve had a crush on the young woman. I think it’s important to have crushes. Not the consuming type, just the ones that quietly scramble your brain and heart at the same time.
***
Several small parks flank the stretch of Horatio Street. The Golden Garden, known for some of the highest quality molly in the city sat across from the 101st Police Precinct and a row of high-end retail shops. In the other direction is Drop Point Park. While the origin of the name of the single-acre landscaped grass-and-rock garden remains a mystery, in recent years it has become famous as part of the annual Wingsuit Flying Contest.
From takeoff from the top of the Empire State Building, the wingsuit professional wore a special jumpsuit with fabric panels between the arms, legs, and torso to create lift, turning vertical free fall into horizontal gliding for extended airtime. A parachute is still needed for a safe landing and requires extensive prior skydiving experience to master the unique flight dynamics.
The fastest wingsuit flight was achieved by Sebastián Álvarez in March 2025, reaching a top speed of 342 mph by harnessing the jet stream, setting new world records for speed, distance in a single flight from over 41,000 feet.
The height of the Empire State Building to the Obelisk left little room for maneuverability or managing the unseen, unpredictable gusts of ground air that snaked through the monstrous towers of the city.
Of the thirty that qualify each year, only a half dozen landed within 100 feet of the Obelisk at the center of the park. Most landed blocks away or crashed into the sides of the towering, surrounding continuums and later have to be scrapped off, like peeling dead flies off a wall.
***
Time to head back. I have to make dinner. Friends coming over to watch the baseball playoffs. I was tired for no apparent reason. I paused on my stone stoop that was much of my world and glanced back half a block.
Wouldn’t it be great to see between those two four-story walk-ups and even, for half an instant, see what Catherine Hellman promised? I’ll bet she was pretty. With a wonderful, welcoming smile and arms waiting to embrace me.
“Maybe tomorrow,” I said, my chest working too hard to keep me standing. Two more steps and two flights of stairs. “I just don’t want to wind up like old Bitterman.”
Someday I’m not going to make it.
I don’t fear that day.
Recently thinking that I could live with that ending even if that day came tomorrow.
Catch up with old Jacob and swap stories about how we got wherever we were.
Maybe finding General Horatio Gates himself.
Maybe finding Catherine.
*****
Arthur Davis is a retired management consultant who has been quoted in The New York Times and in Crain’s New York Business, taught at The New School and interviewed on New York TV News Channel 1. He was featured in a single author collection, nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize, received the 2018 Write Well Award for excellence in short fiction and twice nominated, received Honorable Mention in The Best American Mystery Stories 2017. Additional background at www.TalesofOurTime.com, the Poets & Writers Directory, and Amazon Author Central.