Park Life

One particular graveyard detail sticks in my mind, perhaps because we happened to go to an address on West 80th Street, only yards from the building where I was staying. As Klaus and I climbed the stairs to the sixth floor, we were accompanied by one of the dead woman’s relatives – a cousin, I think, or a nephew – and he explained that she had lived alone for many years, and that we shouldn’t be too surprised by what we found. I didn’t know it at the time, but the apartment I entered that afternoon was a classic example of syllogomania, or Diogenes syndrome, a condition common among the elderly who live on their own. They lose the ability to throw things away, and gradually the line between possessions and rubbish begins to blur. The narrow corridor that ran through the middle of the apartment was narrowed still further by the newspapers and plastic bags that had piled up on either side, almost to the ceiling. In the living room, several items of furniture had been buried completely; imprinted in the junk that had accumulated on the couch was the shape of the woman’s body, like a hare’s form. We had to guess where the bookshelves might be, and then burrow our way through to them. Later, the woman’s relative asked if we wanted to take anything from the apartment in exchange for all our hard work. I chose a large, framed black-and-white photograph of a gala night at the Waldorf-Astoria that had been taken the year I was born.

In late March, and possibly on Nelson’s say-so, Klaus and I were offered the job of running the Strand’s kiosk in Bryant Park. We accepted at once. This was before Giuliani sanitized – or rather, ruined – Times Square, and though Bryant Park was bounded in the east by the austere edifice of the New York Public Library, the poky strip clubs and fizzing neon signs of 42nd Street weren’t far away. From now on, we would be spending our days outdoors, in the vivid, grubby heart of the city.

Once we had punched in at the Strand at nine in the morning, we would load boxes of books into the back of the van – these were to replace the stock we had sold the day before – and then Nelson would drive us up to the park. The first hour was spent setting up – unlocking the kiosk, erecting the trestle tables, and laying out the books, spine uppermost. While one of us carried the tables out on to the paved area, the other would walk over to a diner on Sixth Avenue and bring back coffee and pumpernickel bagels with cream cheese. Most of the selling was accomplished between the hours of eleven and four, with peak activity occurring at lunchtime, when the office workers spilled out of high-rises like the Grace Building and strolled beneath the trees or perched on the smooth stone lip of the fountain. At the end of the day we would pack away the tables and the books, lock up the kiosk, and take the subway back to the store. If the weather was poor, we’d close early.