Chapter 10

Against all odds, I manage to thread the motorcycle through Massachusetts, Rhode Island, and Connecticut without getting killed or collecting any tickets. When I cross the state line into New York, it's well past sunset. Ahead, the lights of New York City illuminate the horizon. The spring sky is only lightly clouded, and I am comfortable enough to ride another three hundred miles. The bike and I have gotten accustomed to each other. The feeling of moving through three planes of motion in darkness is sensual, the closest a human being can come to being able to fly. I've owned the bike for only a day, and I already know that nothing short of a nor'easter is going to get me back into a rolling cage any time soon.

Before long, I am in New York City proper, rolling south through the Bronx with the flow of evening traffic, and then I start recognizing Manhattan landmarks. I've been to Manhattan about a dozen times on business in the last three years, and I know my way around somewhat. It's difficult to get lost in this city at any rate. The streets are laid out in a consistent grid, sequentially numbered east-to-west streets crossed by sequentially numbered north-to-south avenues.

There's no shortage of hotels here, and I've stayed in quite a few of them, so I dig some locations out of memory and steer the bike down the East Side on Park Avenue. At East 40^th Street, I take a right, hoping that my inner compass still works, and I end up at exactly the right spot on Fifth Avenue. The hotel I am looking for, the Courtyard Marriott, is located right here on the corner. As far as I can remember, their rooms are big and clean, and the place is little more than a stone's throw away from Times Square. They have valet parking, but I'm not about to have a valet kill himself on the Hayabusa trying to get it into the lot, so I follow the instructions of the valet and park the bike myself in their lot on East 38^th Street, two blocks to the south.

I check in, unencumbered by bags or luggage except for my little Samsonite backpack. The hotel has thirty floors, but the sleek-looking building is so narrow that each floor only has a few rooms. I'm happy to see that my small suite has brand new furniture and wireless Internet access. The work desk has an ergonomic chair parked in front of it. The whole place looks sparkling clean, as if they have renovated just recently. I walk over to the window and pull back the curtains to look outside. My room is on the third floor, and the building across the street blocks my view of the park beyond, but the hustle and bustle down on Fifth Avenue is every bit as interesting. The Big Apple is cramped and dirty and noisy, but it has a sort of infectious energy to it.

I dump my motorcycling gear on the queen-sized bed, freshen up a little in the marble-tiled bathroom, and head downstairs to see about getting some dinner. It's just a quick walk over to Times Square, and it's a pleasant spring evening. Still, I'm getting a little chilled in only jeans and a t-shirt, so I duck into a tourist trap souvenir shop and buy a lined windbreaker for thirty bucks. I have to dig around for a while to find a plain one in navy blue without "I <heart> NY" emblazoned on it.

There are plenty of eateries around Times Square. I don't feel like trying to find a table in an already crowded place, so I hop into a pizza place and get some grease pie to go. On the way back to the hotel, I notice a liquor store and a deli right next to each other, so I stock up on soda and get a fifth of rum to go along with it.

Back in my hotel room, I set up my laptop and check some online maps while eating pizza. I have Nicole's address and phone number, and her place is well south of here in the Bowery. I resist the urge to hail a cab and drive down there immediately—she told me in her message that she's just heading back home today. Besides, there are a few other things I need to straighten out before I make the leap and roll that particular set of dice. It occurs to me that despite the past weekend, I have no idea whether Nicole even wants to give this thing a shot, and I really have no contingency plan if she doesn't. Somehow, it seems important that I have all my ducks in a row before showing up at her doorstep.

I spend the rest of the evening looking up contacts, sketching maps in the absence of a printer, and writing down phone numbers. When I finally crawl into bed, I lay awake for a while, listening to the background noises outside: the sounds of traffic, the din of voices, and the ever-present wailing of sirens in the distance. It feels like the first night of freedom after a long jail sentence.

The morning brings a surprise. It seems that a cold front moved through on its way north, and when I pull back the curtains to let the daylight in, I see that the sidewalks on Fifth Avenue below are lightly covered with slush. There are a few heavy snowflakes drifting in the air. There are puddles on the road, and as I watch, a taxicab runs through a water-filled pothole, sending a spray of slush and water onto the sidewalk.

I get dressed and leave the hotel to find some breakfast. The air outside smells cool and clean. I stop at the deli I discovered last night to pick up a bagel and some coffee. When I am finished with both, I fish the cell phone out of my pocket and dial one of the numbers I looked up on the Internet last night.

"Chance Consulting, this is Rich Daltrey."

"Rich," I say. "This is Frank Jasper. You may remember me from a few years back. I did some consulting contracts for you in Boston."

"Yes, Frank! Of course I remember you. How's it going?"

I'm sure you remember me, I think with a smirk. I did two contracts for Chance that netted Rich a fat chunk of change. I got to take a look at a Chance bill that the customer left on a desk once, and Chance paid me thirty-eight bucks an hour while billing the customer seventy. I have no hard feelings, though—it's the way the business works. Contracting companies are convenient, saving their contractors all the footwork when it comes to looking for jobs. They have the contacts and the reputation, and in return they collect a hefty percentage off their consultants' paychecks.

"It's going pretty good, Rich. I'm actually somewhat available for assignments as of today. Do you guys do business in New York City?"

"Do we ever," Rich says. "We're nationwide, don't you know? Seattle to Tampa and everything in between."

"Do you think you can look me up a contract in Manhattan somewhere?"

"Sure thing," Rich says. "Give me a little while to go over our client requests in the computer, and I'll get back to you. Anything in particular you have in mind?"

"Not really," I say. "Just don't give me any shirt-and-tie shit. No banks, no stockbrokers, no insurance companies."

"That's ninety percent of our clientele in any big city," Rich says.

"Well, see if there's anything else out there. I think I'm done with corporate monkey houses. If you can't find anything, no big deal—I just wanted to check with you first."

"Hey, and I appreciate that," Rich says. "You're a dependable guy. I'll see what I can find. Same pay rate as your last contract?"

"If you can get it. I realize that the non-corporate customers don't usually have super-deep pockets. I'll trade a few bucks for not having to wear a suit."

"We might be able to come to an agreement," Rich says. "You got a number where I can reach you?"

I give him my cell phone number.

"All right, Frank. I'll call you back, whether I find something or not."

"Good enough, Rich. I'll talk to you soon."

I kill the connection and bury the phone in my pocket again. Between my savings and the severance pay, I could afford to live the bum life and stay even in expensive New York City hotels for a year or more, but I don't want to burn up my safety cushion. Fifty grand can buy you a decent little house in some parts of the country, but in this city, it's barely two years' rent, and only if your space requirements are very modest.

I wander back over to Times Square just to take a look around in daylight. There's an Armed Forces recruiting booth on the traffic island in the middle of the square, and I walk over and check out their posters. It seems half a lifetime ago, but the poster with the clean-cut, steel-jawed Marine DI in his Smokey Bear hat brings back memories of a dark morning in Parris Island, South Carolina, a lengthy bus ride through the darkness, and yellow footprints on faded concrete.

There are news stands everywhere, hawking everything from newspapers to magazines to porno DVDs. Just ten years ago, I would have picked up a newspaper and searched through the classified ads for housing and employment, but times have changed. Now everything is at our fingertips instantaneously through the Internet, and the only people skimming the newspaper classifieds for jobs are old-timers without computer skills, or poor slobs who can't afford even the five bucks it takes to log onto a loaner at the Internet café for an hour. Every little hole-in-the-wall coffee place seems to offer free wireless Internet access these days. When I think about the array of communication devices I had on my belt right up until yesterday, I have to wonder whether all this connectivity is starting to become a burden. Now all I have on my person is the basic little candy bar cell phone I got with the wireless contract, and that one doesn't even take pictures or do web access.

I walk a few blocks down Broadway, taking in the hustle and bustle of the city. Every other car on the road seems to be a yellow cab, and they all go at NASCAR speeds. On the upside, a ride is never more than a raised hand away. I hail one of the cabs, and tell the driver to take me down to Battery Park.

"Groun' Zero?" he asks.

"No, not Ground Zero," I reply with a smile. "Just good old Battery Park. I'm not into disaster tourism today."

The cabbie nods and threads his big Crown Victoria into traffic. Ten minutes later, I am down at the south tip of Manhattan, where Battery Park overlooks the bay and allows a view of Lady Liberty holding her torch aloft in the harbor. In the summer, this place is usually lousy with tourists waiting to hitch a ride on the Liberty Island ferry, but today the promenade is blissfully empty. A few people are rollerblading or walking their dogs, and I have no competition as I buy a cup of coffee from a street vendor and sit down on one of the benches overlooking the water. Out in the harbor, the cold wind is beating the waves frothy.

I sip my coffee and look out over the water. Behind me, a city of millions is hustling, with most everyone engaged in the process of making a living. Sooner or later, I will have to get join them in the process, but for now, I cannot muster any sense of urgency. I've been so caught up in the rat race that I can't remember when I last took the time to sit on a bench and have a coffee just for the sake of it.

A gray-haired black guy sits down on the next bench over. He has a violin case in his lap, and as I watch, he takes the violin out of the case almost reverently, like a father lifting a baby. He takes the bow out of the case, checks the strings, and then puts the case aside on the bench next to him. Then he lifts the violin to his collarbone and begins playing. The notes drift across the park and out over the water, in strange harmony with the cries of the seagulls. I listen to his piece, watching him play with his eyes closed, and when he finishes, I put down my coffee and clap in appreciation. He looks at me with a smile and nods his head briefly.

"Bach," I say. "'Sleepers Awake'. Never heard it as a pure string piece."

"Everything's a string piece if all you got is strings," he says. "Clarinet don't make a sound a violin can't make. C sharp's a c sharp either way." He looks at me in appraisal, and then shakes his head with a grin.

"Young fella like you, knowing Bach. Maybe there's hope yet for your generation."

I came to New York City with a laptop and the clothes on my back, so the next order of the day is the acquisition of a decent wardrobe. There is no shortage of clothing stores here on Manhattan, and it only takes me an hour of focused shopping to gather a cab trunk full of bags and boxes. I pick up a half-dozen jeans and cargo pants, an equal number of button-down shirts, two jackets, three new pairs of shoes, a stack of underwear, and a sports coat. I haven't bought that much clothing in the last three years combined. It seems appropriate to start a new chapter with a new wardrobe.

Back at the hotel, I go through my new purchases and put on some of the new clothes: a pair of jeans, a dark green cotton shirt, and a pair of black shoes with stainless steel buckles instead of laces. The new charcoal-colored sports coat makes the outfit complete, and I nod as I look at myself in the tall bathroom mirror. I look casual, yet fashionable, and there's no trace of salary slave left.

As I study the lines of my own face in the mirror, it occurs to me that I like my reflection. I feel good in my own skin once again. It feels like the last weekend has flushed all the doubt and anxiety and self-criticism out of my body.

Everything's a string piece if all you got is strings, I think. Maybe that's the secret to life, the answer to everything that everybody tries to find in all the wrong places. Maybe it's as simple as taking what you have and doing the best you can with it, no matter what the playbook insists you ought to be doing. If I was responsible and concerned with the playbook, I'd be polishing a chair with my ass now, looking over my shoulder to make sure I don't give offense to anyone who has the power to fire me. I certainly wouldn't have topped my ten-year IT career by blackmailing my boss and walking out on cushy benefits and the prospect of fully vested stock options. And then I would have looked at myself in the mirror in another twenty years just like I am doing right now, but I would have frowned at the graying hair and the wrinkles and the extra weight caused by thirty years of desk work and microwave dinners, and maybe—just maybe—I would not have liked what I had to give up in trade for my 401k and my portfolio of vested company stock.

I run a hand through my hair, still a full head of it without a trace of gray. I may have gray hair in twenty years, and I may work three times as hard in the meantime, but I will have earned a day, a week, or a month of life on my terms for every one of those gray hairs.

My cell phone rings, and I straighten out my sports coat before I answer.

"Hey Frank, Rich here."

"Did you find something already?"

"Well, Frank, your parameters kind of limit your options there. I could get you working within the hour if you changed your mind on the whole bank and stockbroker thing. Anyway, there are a few things you may be interested in, but I can't promise you a ton of money."

"That's okay, Rich. What do you have?"

"I'll send you three or four postings fresh off the computer. They're all in Manhattan."

"Thanks, Rich. I'll check my email and let you know if anything rings my chimes."

"Sounds good, Frank. Talk to you soon."

I haven't talked to Rich in at least two years, but it's amazing how fast he snaps back into the old Best Buddy routine. He's somewhat personable, a smooth talker and slick as wet owl snot in negotiations, but I have no illusions about his motivations. He's the pimp, and his technology contractors are his hookers. They service his customers, and he does the corporate version of a drive-by with the Cadillac once a week, yelling "where my money at?" out of the window. It's all very efficient, weekly timesheets and prompt paychecks, but it's still turning tricks in the end. I have no intention of going back into that line of work for any length of time, but tapping into Rich is a great way of finding out what's out there without having to spend an hour or three going through job postings online.

I sit down at the laptop and check my email. As promised, Rich has sent me a listing of open contracts in Manhattan, and I go through the list. There's only one listing that catches my eye, a request for a technology instructor. The customer is a technology college whose name does not ring a bell. Still, I write down the contact information on a hotel notepad and peel off the page to stick it into my coat pocket.

The college is located in a midtown office building. The place is not exactly ratty, but it's showing its age, with faded carpets and yellowing ceiling tiles. The director of the place is a guy named Randy. He's about my age, and he sports a buzzcut and a pair of glasses with tiny circular lenses. He grins and jokes a lot when he talks, and I take an instant liking to him. His office desk is littered with cartoon merchandise, Spongebob Squarepants figurines strewn on the agenda blotter and perched on top of his computer monitor. Randy follows my amused gaze as I study his collection, and he gives me an apologetic grin.

"My kids love Spongebob, and I just sort of got sucked into it. Wait 'till you have kids—you'll know all the theme songs from all their favorite shows by heart. I hear them in my sleep quite often."

"Kids," I say. "I always thought I'd never have kids."

"Just wait," Randy replies. "When I was twenty-five, I was dead sure I'd never have any. Now I have two." He gestures towards the wooden picture frame on his desk. It holds pictures of a little boy and a girl, both no older than four or five.

"Their mom's a stockbroker. I was a stay-at-home dad for more than three years. It's the hardest work I've ever done, I tell you that, but it's the best thing I've ever done with my life. At least once a day, they'll make you want to pull your hair out and wish you had gotten a vasectomy, but there's nothing like being a parent." He smiles at the picture of his kids.