NYC State of Mind

I’ve an interesting relationship with New York City. I absolutely loathe each and every sports team emanating from that locale, as any loyal son of northern New England should. The Big Apple has, however, issued a robust siren call to me from my earliest days. I was convinced upon graduating from college that I was headed there. A twenty-seven year delay ensued while I wore a uniform and trotted around the world’s garden spots. My daughter finally realized my dream for me which allowed me to vicariously experience everything I thought I wanted when I graduated from college.

It turned out the old adage of a “great place to visit but I wouldn’t want to live there” was more accurate than I anticipated. I learned that I probably would not have been happy living in New York City and I did find a home in the Army with very few regrets concerning that development. All in all though I’m a bone deep New Englander and relish the opportunity to spend my sunset years back amongst the rude drivers and beautiful scenery of these northern climes. Excepting, of course, a couple months early in the year when I had a very long/hilly driveway to contend with; but I have a Panamanian solution to those months underway.

I’m focusing on Gotham today because date night was the movie The Intern and I just finished my latest Matthew Scudder novel by Lawrence Block in which, as always, New York City plays a major supporting role. First the movie, which I really liked, precisely because it didn’t go for the big reveal or major plot twist. It stars Robert Deniro as a retired successful businessman who signs on as an intern for an internet based company run by a driven young women played by Anne Hathaway. New York City also stars as the location for the collision between baby boomer and millennial cultures. Of course, I log in on the Deniro side of the ledger, agewise, as this was reminiscent of the earlier times when crowds of friends of either my son or daughter descended on the house.  

Deniro and Hathaway are so good in this, both likable and chewing serious scenery. The middle of the film struggles a little, gets a bit episodic but I liked the message of both generations contributing to growth on many levels. I may be a bit prejudiced about Hathaway as she looks so much like my daughter but this was an easy movie to like; a nice departure from my usual CGI explosions and blood splattering. The jokes were funny, the plot sincere, and it felt like hanging out with friends.

Now to my latest fanatical plunge into the world of Matthew Scudder with A Dance at the Slaughterhouse. Block continues what I thought was impossible – making each book better. He brings in supporting characters to give Scudder’s life a little more stability and dare I say “hope”. It’s an interesting collection including a call girl romantic interest, a career criminal best friend, and a street wise black kid. All contribute as Scudder sifts the minute granules of available facts trying to determine if a TV exec murdered his wife.

Block also provides a trip back in time to the culture and the city as it was when he penned this. The AIDS epidemic was at its most startlingly terrifying and Times Square was still a cesspool of porn before being reborn as the current tourist Mecca. A simple gesture Scudder observes re-kindles a forgotten search for a pair of killers whom his innate sense of justice requires pursuit. I can’t say much more without ruining the superb climatic confrontation as he pursues both cases with his signature dogged determination.

Here are some of Block’s words, with Scudder conversing with a friend about why he pursues the killers. Block does so well with dialogue, maybe the best ever:

“But here’s the point. They were doing this and getting away with it, and I got on their case and got lucky and figured out what they did and how they did it and who they did it to, and it didn’t mean squat. No indictment, no arrest, no charges brought, not even an investigation. A pretty good cop found the whole thing so frustrating he drank himself stupid. I wasn’t prepared to do that to myself.” “Well you got that part right,” he said. “And then you decided, well, letting the Universe work this out on its own is just not something I can safely do. God’s in deep shit, you told yourself, unless He’s got me to help Him out.” “God”, I said. “Well whatever the hell you want to call it. Your Higher Power, the creative force of the Universe, The Great Perhaps. That’s what Rabelais called it. The Great Perhaps. You didn’t figure the Great Perhaps was equal to the task confronting Him, so it was up to you to take over.” “No,” I said. “That’s not how it was. I thought, I can let go of this, I can turn this over, and it will all work out the way it’s supposed to. Because everything always does. I know that on the days when I seem to believe in the Great Perhaps, and I still know it when my Higher Power is the Great Perhaps Not. And one thing I always know for sure-whether or not there’s a God, I’m not it.”