One day in 1989, when I was a restless boy journalist in Washington, DC, I opened a book by H. L. Mencken and read the following dispatch from across time and space:
New York has the best of everything, including the best of the worst.
In those days, I lived according to a simple precept: You might as well believe everything you read, because if you don’t, it might turn out to be true, and then where would you be? And so, to make a long story blessedly short, I dove into the cauldron of experience that is New York City, with all the enthusiasm of a dog leaping into a vat of Alpo.
And there I wallowed, tail a-waggin’, for some fifteen years before I finally began to grow nauseated from it. You can only devour New York for so long before it turns around and starts devouring you. Have you ever stopped to imagine what it would feel like to be devoured by a vat of Alpo? Have you?
I escaped to Boston about two years ago, but the vicissitudes of fortune (and misfortune) have frequently driven me back to Manhattan for days or even weeks at a time. And I've never left it without wondering: How in hell could I have been happy in such a place for fifteen minutes, let alone fifteen years?
None of New York’s attractions seemed remotely worth its stress, filth, expense and stench of Alpo - until a few weeks ago, when a close friend, whom I’ll call ‘Wasp’, invited me down for a weekend of horticulture.
You will not need to be reminded that horticulture isn't a typical New York activity. But Wasp is not a typical wasp. To be sure, she lives in a typical one-bedroom apartment on the 20th floor of a typical New York building. But in spring and summer, two unique elements combine to make Wasp's apartment an enchanted place: Wasp herself; and a very long (though not very wide) terrace, suitable for container gardening.
It has always seemed to me that flowers don't bloom on Wasp's terrace, but, rather, rise up out of the earth when she summons them. And now that I've stood nigh and seen the process - nay, now that I've lent a humble hand in it - I realize that I have been spectacularly wrong, as usual. I will not attempt to describe the two-day tsunami of labor and artistry that took-place up there; but I will say that it reminded me of one reason why I once loved living in New York. It's a place where beauty of all sorts sits cheek-by-jowl with every manner of outrage and horror. And I think that is the most realistic context in which to behold both beauty and horror. But not everyone has the courage and stamina for it.
Wasp has got it, in spades. Twenty floors above an avenue choking with carbon monoxide and vile New York expletives, it pleases her to create a beautiful muthafuckin' flower garden, so each year she creates it. This garden would be glorious anywhere; but its concrete-and-steel setting produces a miraculous atmosphere that no country gardener, however gifted, could achieve.
In the Sunday twilight, after two days of horticulture, I flopped down on one of Wasp's comfy deck chairs. My clothes reeked of ParaLite and fertilizer; my fingernails were clotted with potting soil; and my baseball cap was glued to my scalp with sweat. I regarded Wasp, fussing over her morning glories; I regarded the moon, taking its place over the shoulder of a coal-black skyscraper; I regarded my senses and realized that they had not been so aroused, in so many different ways, in quite some time. And I heard myself say:
"Wasp! This is how I want to live!"
I meant it, too.
The next day, I went back to Boston with all sorts of astounding revelations Jiffy-Popping around in my head. And in my heart - and in my camera - I carried home a bouquet.
