Before they were sold, the men and women in shackles had to turn their backs to prove they bore no marks — no one wanted a defiant slave.
From far off, I see a solitary figure coming toward me — the distance gives us time to contemplate each other.
From a distance the crown almost looks like solid gold. But as I walk farther up 30th Avenue in Astoria, I can tell there is something not quite right about it.
You couldn’t go where you wanted so you settled for walking the George Washington Bridge, no one’s favorite. It is a fixture though, speared deep into rock on both sides of the river.
Like Blanche DuBois, exit pollers depend on the kindness of strangers.
Rubbing alcohol pools into centimeter-deep crevices in his palms. But it’s the best way he knows how to get clean—vital after hours of rummaging in vast networks of garbage.
When we were little, my friend’s dad would drive us north, to his college reunion. The last hour or so of the ride, he would play a game, the same one every year.
Tourists on a guided neighborhood jaunt through Midtown Manhattan might expect to hear about the square footage of the Empire State Building or some other anodyne fact. They probably don’t expect to hear this:
“[We] peed in the middle of the road. [We] would stand right here and we would see who could pee further into the street.”
The thing is, people can't resist touching the stones, though you're not supposed to.
At its highest level—not just fans wearing dry-cleaned jerseys to games but the brand-building superfans in greasepaint and foam rubber and such—NFL fandom is brutal, almost Hobbesian, and both trivial-seeming and wildly grandiose.
Michiganders like to shift the blame onto Ohioans, New Yorkers side-eye New Jerseyans, and everyone else just blames Florida.
There are about two hundred carriage horse drivers, ranging from newcomers working their way through college to veterans who've been giving rides to tourists for decades.
April is the cruelest month, but winter is the most empathetic season.
He was telling me about a girl he’d met. Now they’ve been together a long time, but then he barely knew her.
I’m in an obscure back room within Fairmount Park, far from the horses, with the diehards, next to a man called Lucky.