Wrong Train, Right Move

My Adventure in the Financial District

Greetings, folks!

So, I’m on the 2 train, lost in thought, when I suddenly realize—I’m going the wrong way. I hop off at Wall Street, a part of town I almost never visit. But fate, as they say, has a sense of humor.

The light is fading. Shadows cast by skyscrapers dance on the cobblestones and historic facades. Drama. Opulence. Comfort. Art Deco and Gilded Age. Ornate details and grandiose design. The rich and powerful have it all. And that’s their cross to bear.

I only have my phone with me, but hey, I might as well make the most of my detour. As I wander, snapping shots of the canyon-like skyline, historic buildings, and modern developments, I pass by a mansion-like restaurant—a scene straight out of The Great Gatsby. Well-dressed rich folks, expensive cars, doormen. Tony Bennett croons out onto the street. Some kind of soirée or fundraiser.

What am I, chopped liver, I ask myself? Let’s crash this party.

I push through a cluster of men in tailored suits, puffing cigars like they own the place (they probably do), and step inside.

“What’s shaking here, sports fan?” I ask a stocky bouncer in a tight suit, sporting a my-kinda haircut. “The Pope in town?”

“Better,” he says. “A fundraiser for a real estate mogul.”

“That so?”

“Wants to make a movie called The Hidden Truths of the Universe and get all the Hollywood stars over fifty to play a small part in it. His contribution to the “forgotten ones.”

“I’m not much into movies. Look around? I won’t break anything, I promise.”

“Minimum donation is $2,500. But for a half-C-note, I’ll let you use the bathroom on the second floor, take a photo with Jon Voight, and enjoy some hot appetizers and a drink.”

I don’t make enough money to throw around fifty bucks. But who could say no to that?

So, I weave through the crowd, keeping my head up like I’m one of them. There’s no sign of Jon Voight. Maybe he’s in the bathroom changing his diaper.

A waiter passes with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Caviar, obviously. Haven’t had that in a while. Tastes like chinchilla shit, but I pretend it’s the best thing since pizza and beer.

Nearby, a couple is arguing in hushed tones.

“I told you, Mason, you cannot sell our villa in St. Barts just because you ‘don’t like the energy’ there anymore.”

“I felt something, Blair. A presence.”

“It was our housekeeper.”

A woman in a shimmering gold dress floats past, pausing just long enough to whisper something into the ear of a man who looks like he either owns half of Manhattan or drives for Uber Eats. Or both. He nods sagely as if she’s just revealed the secrets of the universe.

I’m considering getting another shot of James Beam when I hear someone say, “Oh my god, Bradley, I LOVE your aura tonight.”

Get me the fuck outta here. I beeline for the exist and that’s when I spot her.
A woman of a certain age, sitting alone—radiant, poised, looking like she stepped out of an old Hollywood film. Is she waiting for her husband? Her boyfriend? One of those cigar-smoking hedge-fund money-grubbing cats with an expensive haircut and a watch worth more than my yearly rent?

So I figure—I’ve got nothing to lose. If she says no, she says no. But after my encounter with that Lady in Red at the Atlantic Avenue station, something strange happened. My skin started to become resilient and develop scales.

I clear my throat. “Excuse me, ma’am. I was just passing throgh, saw you sitting here looking like Cleopatra, and I thought—if I don’t take your photo, I’ll regret it for the rest of my days. I’m happily married, by the way, and only doing it because I appreciate beauty and style.”

She smiles. “I’ve been waiting all day for someone to tell me that.”

Well… where are my younger days of miracle and wonder? And just as I think that…

…she strikes a perfect cobra pose. Regal. Hypnotic.

Stunned, I fumble for my iPhone and snap a shot… or two… or three… before she changes her mind—or before her Wall Street prince charming lunges at me from behind.

I promise to email her the photo as I thank her and walk away—only to realize, too late, that I never got her email. That’s okay. She probably wouldn’t have given it to me anyway.

Moral of the Story?

If you’re a photographer, never be afraid to crash a fundraiser or ask a stranger for a photo. You just might walk away with more than you bargained for.

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’Till next time.
ak