When I’d walk through Washington Square Park in the 90s, the dealers always seemed to know me, and they’d indicate the availability of their wares with a discrete “Trees, smoke, trees, smoke” like a Giger counter ticking more and more quickly as I approached and slowing and fading as they receded in the distance.
Today, as I’m walking down Broadway, a dreadlocked man breaks away from his conversation without looking at me and gives a casual, “Edibles.” as I pass, then goes back to laughing with his friend.
A few blocks later, I walk through NYU, under trees overhanging the sidewalk with long, rain-heavy limbs. The sounds of the city are muted, and I try to listen to the quiet before it’s gone.
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