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| Coney Island boardwalk; I was one of the NPCs |
I have reached the age where I am invisible to most people.
I recently roamed the Coney Island boardwalk, after struggling to wash up in a Maimonides Park restroom because my hands could not activate any of its motion-sensitive faucets, happily taking cell phone photos without anyone seeming to notice, or care.
I felt like an NPC, a non-player character in a video game. Everyone else was a participant; I was an observer.
The funny thing is, when I was a boy, I thought invisibility was the world's greatest superpower. It would allow me complete freedom. I could do whatever I wished without consequence.
I realize now, after all these years, how mistaken that is. Invisibility can be fun sometimes, but on the whole, it is the curse of the marginalized.
The one true superpower is the ability to stop time.
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| Tiny statues in a prayer garden near home |
Last week in my hometown in suburban New Jersey, I nursed a serving of shaved ice at a new shop in one of the borough's strip malls. Of course, none of the young attendants or patrons were paying attention to me.
So I watched, unnoticed, as one of the employees adjusted the satellite radio providing the background music. She stopped at a station playing the opening bars of "Your Song."
I do not believe, from her reaction, that she had ever heard this song before. Not the original, anyway. It's more than 50 years old, from another generation and culture. Even the seemingly inimitable voice of Elton John, who just this weekend concluded his farewell tour in real life, was almost unrecognizable in its clarity and immediacy.
The young woman was mesmerized. After another minute, she said aloud to no one: "Wow! This is really good!"
And just like that, Elton John's song had suspended time.
That's what excellence does. The creators who conjure these moments possess Superman's power to pause and even reverse the earth's spin on its axis, keeping us all a little further from death.
That's the superpower I long to possess.
Walking home that evening, I wandered through the church grounds where our family has its name inscribed on a brick in the pavement by its front entrance -- as if that were permanent. The pastor was walking his dog. I waved to him, but he evidently didn't see me... or he ignored me, assuming I was (as I am in the confessional) just a random trespasser.
I continued through the neighborhood, wondering how it stays so light out so late these days, when I was startled by rustling branches in the tall, landscaped bushes at my back. Something hit the ground with a thud that was substantial enough to feel under my feet.
I turned and saw a deer. It stopped and stared at me. Or through me. It didn't run away.
I took its photo and turned for home. I knew that at least I could write about it all.
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How to Write the Great New Milford Poem
Before you start,
You must accept you are invisible.
You live in the suburbs.
People walk dogs past your house,
In front of your white picket fence.
Sometimes they stop and peer
Into your dining room window,
Pointing in your direction,
As if they’ve seen a ghost.
They don’t know you can see them.
You do not participate in Little League baseball,
Or Junior League football.
Your children left home long ago.
The town pool has closed without warning.
Its parking lot, empty; its grounds, overgrown.
Your family used to swim there.
The Burger King is still open.
Decades ago, the borough attorney
Protested the “Home of the Whopper” sign
Because he said it insulted Italian Americans.
Your children used to eat there.
Begin now by offering a prayer to Bertha Reetz
At her abandoned stone in the French Burial Ground.
Remain calm when you hear gunshots
From the range behind the Recycling Center.
The police are shooting blanks, scattering the deer
In your town’s only remaining sliver of woods
Along the Hackensack River.
Gather the scraps of your neighbors’ families:
Sticky, dirt-crusted Dairy Queen napkins and cups
Littering the curbside along River Road.
Cross the street to the garbage can
At the bus stop outside Canterbury Village.
Use extreme caution. You are invisible to traffic.
You return home alone.
You start to write a poem.
