Central Park, Manhattan, Fall.
Every time I visit I have to go to the duck pond at Central Park, to acknowledge a debt to this book.
“Okay,” I said. Then I thought of something, all of a sudden. “Hey, listen,” I said. “You know those ducks in that lagoon right near Central Park South? That little lake? By any chance, do you happen to know where they go, the ducks, when it gets all frozen over? Do you happen to know, by any chance?” I realized it was only one chance in a million.
He turned around and looked at me like I was a madman. “What’re ya tryna do, bud?” he said. “Kid me?”
“No—I was just interested, that’s all.”
He didn’t say anything more, so I didn’t either. Until we came out of the park at Ninetieth Street. Then he said, “All right, buddy. Where to?”
It gets dark at 4pm.
On the way to Columbus Circle I ran into a protest rally. If the Sixties are back, will rock be back, too?
Humor as a survival mechanism.
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