Manhattan Voyagers. Thomas Boone's Quealy
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tie even though work-casual was more the normal attire today for office workers. Despite being thin with zero body fat, he still managed to project a teddy-bearish charm when he smiled, the kind that caused women to swoon when he was in his salad days.
Upon closer inspection, however, there was something elusively odd about his attire -- the tie was much too thin, an obvious relic from the 1960s; and the lapels on his jacket were way too wide and last in style during the 1970s. And his unusual choice of footwear set off alarm bells; the iridescent high-top purple sneakers were designed for inner-city gang-bangers, not Wall Street types. All in all, he looked to be an educated man of means who was now down-at-the-heels.
The Cormorant flew from the piling to the guardrail near him.
He stroked its long neck. “Have you been up to your old tricks and scaring the tourists again?”
The bird noticed a bagel with a shmir sticking out of his jacket pocket and pecked at the cellophane wrapper with its beak.
“I’m saving that for my lunch; besides cream cheese will give you hives.”
Another helicopter roared overhead as it came in for a landing, the whirling blades kicking up a wet spray off the river that left tiny droplets on his face.
He glared up at it and bellowed at the top of his lungs, “Crash and burn you noise-polluting iron bastards!”
The bird flapped its wings in approval.
His words were mostly drowned out by the noise from the plane’s engine yet two mature women, who had been admiring a passing sloop, gaped at him.
Seeing their alarmed reaction, he tipped a finger to the brim of an invisible hat on his head and bowed from the waist with a well-practiced flourish. “Please forgive the outburst, dear ladies, I’m always a bit testy in the morning until I’ve had my first cup of coffee.”
Realizing that he wasn’t a raving maniac after all and meant them no harm, they giggled flirtatiously before resuming their sightseeing.
He sighed at the Cormorant. “It’s a great pity you’re not a songbird; you could serenade the tourists while I’d pass around a hat for some spending money.”
The bird made a choking sound.
As if in sympathy, the man hastily pulled out a Kleenex and coughed. It was a hollow-chested, loose cough; blood mixing with the phlegm. He grimaced at the scarlet color and flung the tissue into a nearby trash basket.
The bird beeped twice and flew back to the piling.
“Yes, what you say is true, my dark feathered friend, I don’t deny it. I’ve always been a bed-hopping, womanizer, ever since college.”
A loudspeaker erupted, announcing the arrival of a ferry from Atlantic Highlands at Slip C.
“I was quite the heartthrob in my day; a cad, to be brutally honest.”
The bird was standing on one foot now, resting the other under a wing.
“I’d have a wife to grow old with if I hadn’t tomcatted about,” he said wistfully, “maybe even kids and a few grandchildren to comfort me in my declining years.”
Passengers disembarked from the ferry while the out-going group waited patiently to board.
“But my wife would probably be dead by now anyway, almost all my contemporaries are. So, in the end, I guess it doesn’t matter.”
Switching legs, the bird continued to listen as it gazed out at the harbor.
He inhaled the sea air. “Rivers are magical; don’t you agree?”
The Cormorant appeared to nod.
“The Hudson River may be wider, however, the East River has always been my favorite, ever since I moved here to Gotham. It has a certain New Yorkness about it and I like the way the water changes color as the day progresses. In the early morning, it’s a crisp blue, a misty green in the afternoon, and a steely gray as the Sun goes down.”
A barfing sound rose up from the bird’s long neck.
“Yes, I am aware that the East River isn’t really a river at all; it’s an estuary, a tributary of the sea where salt water rushes in and meets fresh water. But everyone calls it a river so I was merely following convention.”
Another ferry departed the pier and sped towards Hoboken in New Jersey.
“I wish I could swim in it the way the Lenape Indians did 10,000 years ago when they first set up their wigwams along this shoreline. They called it Mannahatta then – ‘Island of Many Hills’.”
The drone of whirling rotary blades could be heard as another line of helicopters approached in the distance.
“Did you know that by 1860, New York City was the oyster-trading capital of the world?”
The bird tracked the incoming choppers with chary eyes.
“It’s hard to believe but it’s true. This harbor was also flush with trout, sturgeon, herring, crabs, scallops, mussels and even lobsters.”
The engine noise grew much louder.
“I don’t remember if I mentioned this to you before but I’m a Knickerbocker, I’ve got old Dutch settler blood in me. An ancestor of mine, a jewel cutter by trade, sailed over here from Antwerp in 1631 when this burg was still called New Amsterdam.”
The Cormorant snorted belligerently.
“Don’t get upset; I agree, your ancestors were definitely here first.”
A stream of water shot out of the bird’s beak.
“Going for a dip to cool off; are we?”
The bird dove off the piling into the water, surfacing a few seconds later under the pier.
“You’re such a showboat!”
Again the bird dove under the surface and was gone from view for almost a full minute, eventually bobbing up twenty-five yards away.”
He hollered at the Cormorant. “Catch me a fish for dinner!”
A female security guard wearing an orange polyester vest with red stripes suddenly appeared by his side. She held a sweating can of soda in her meaty hand and was big-boned, ebony black, with thick lips, well on her way to becoming obese in a few years. “Howzit going, sugar?”
“Fine, Letitia, I’m just talking to the Cormorant.”
She swept the water with her sad, almond eyes. “Where’s it at?”
“He’ll pop up again in a sec, you’ll see.”
For several minutes the two of them waited, to no avail, for a beak to pierce the river’s glassy surface.
Letitia rested her beefy elbows on the railing. “Are you feeling ok?”
“The Cormorant was out there, Letitia, he’s just playing games.”
“How do you know the bird is a he and not a she?”
“Because he told me he was a he.”
“The bird talks to you?”
“Uh-huh, in a manner of speaking.”
“I wouldn’t go blabbing about that to other people, Eddie, if I was you. They’ll think you’re a nut case.”
He shrugged. “St. Francis of Assisi used to talk to all sorts of animals in the 13th. Century.”
“You ain’t no freaking saint, Eddie Felton, so mum’s the word.”
“Got it.”
“Are you still having blackouts?”
“Nah.”
“Coughing up blood?”
“I’m