Halloween

October 31, 2006, 9pm, Times Square:
This is probably one of only two places on planet Earth (the other being Hollywood Boulevard) where Halloween can go largely unnoticed. I’m on my way home from Harlem after teaching my night classes the mysteries of algebra, and I decide to go up to street level to soak in the…ambiance.

At first glance, tonight seems no different than any other night; the usual denizens jabber, stalk, posture, and hustle. I am told that Jesus is coming back to judge me by a young woman waving a bullhorn. But then I notice something is different: the Naked Cowboy, a rather buff character who plays his guitar on the median of the square, rain or shine, wearing only cowboy boots, a Stetson and a pair of tighty-whiteys, has, in a nod to the festivities, traded said tighty-whiteys for an orange pair. This is big!

Intrigued, I stand under the Dow Jones ticker and observe the mele. It is near 70 degrees on this Halloween and there is quite a skin show going on, as there usually is on any warm night in midtown. The angels and princesses sport ample cleavage and gang tattoos, there is a far wider variety of skimpy leather clothing than usual and the hookers are ignored for the most part, being somewhat overdressed. The Grinch gets off the 2-train, strolls across the square and is joined a hooded fellow wielding a lightsaber.

The aspects of this night that are most noticeably different are intangible; there is a carnival atmosphere, a certain gala mood as brightly clad, sometimes tipsy, revelers rush on and off of the trains. I hear snippets of conversations as I glance up at the 30-foot talking heads on the giant video screen above me and head for the trains myself. I won’t be getting home until almost 11pm, but sometimes pausing for these moments to taste, smell, see, hear, touch and feel is important.

I take a seat on the 3-train and Spiderman sits down across from me. A pair of serious looking black men in white crocheted Muslim skull caps get onto the train, quickly set up three large skin-covered drums and launch into some fantastically intricate primal rhythms. Spiderman gives me a knowing look – he’s right, they are really good. The performance lasts until the train makes its last stop in Tribeca, Brooklyn will be next. The musicians pass the hat, preparing to disembark and I toss in a few coins, grateful for what I’ve heard, but Spiderman offers no spare change and I can almost see him blush beneath the mask – Spiderman has no pockets.