Bye,
This is Stephen.
These days I like to tell my listeners that I'm a real human being.
Making these stories for you is my work and my art.
And my great passion.
And every word you hear tonight.
Was recorded by me in my studio.
With my little dogs at my feet.
And do it said.
Hello my friend.
Welcome to your sleep story.
My name is Stephen Dalton.
I'm an Irish Storyteller.
And it's my great privilege.
Be the voice that you listen to.
As you go to sleep.
These days a lot of us are feeling nostalgic.
For a different time.
But a time that we knew.
And so tonight.
You are going to visit.
New York in the 1980s.
You will see what's on the shelves in the supermarket.
You will pay for a coffee.
And realise how little it is.
You will speak with a cab driver.
And sleep in the Plaza Hotel.
And I truly hope you enjoy this cosy,
Nostalgic experience.
But first,
Let's do the relaxation session.
Which will take a few minutes.
Before tonight's sleep story.
I'm going to count down from 10 to 1 and as I do,
Allow yourself to let go.
More and more.
Feel the support.
Of the bed beneath you.
Or the floor.
Or whatever you lie upon tonight.
And beneath what you lie upon.
Feel a deeper support.
The support of the earth.
Our home.
Our constant support.
And as you become aware of that support See if you can.
Sink into this moment a little more now.
Chest.
Let go.
A little more now.
Nein.
You.
Are.
Safe.
Allow my voice.
To be an anchor of safety tonight.
To be a friend.
To be a gentle guide.
A guide that only ever brings you.
To safe places.
To warm.
And cosy places.
Places that enable and support.
Your sleep.
Trust.
At my voice.
Is a friend tonight.
Feel into your body now.
Notice where you might still be holding tonight.
Notice.
Where you may have pain.
Or tingling.
Or tension.
Notice anything.
Maybe you feel something in your feet.
Or in your lower legs.
Resize.
Or your belly.
Your chest.
Shoulders.
Arms.
Ends.
Or maybe you're like me.
And you hold tension in your face.
Just.
.
.
See?
If you can soften a little now.
This is a time bomb.
For kindness to yourself.
And to your body.
Seven.
The day.
Is.
Whatever has been.
Has been.
Whatever will be.
Will be.
But right now.
All you have.
Is this moment.
Your thoughts can't change what has gone before.
Your thoughts can't change.
What will come tomorrow.
Your brain.
Needs rest now.
So,
As thoughts come and go now Don't fight them.
Don't chase them away.
See them for what they are.
So much.
Then just.
.
.
Watch them go.
Like leaves.
Floating away.
On a moonlit river.
Or cloud.
Passing through a starlit sky.
6.
This is your moment.
This.
Is your time.
You have earned.
This moment of kindness to yourself.
You deserve.
To have peace in your life.
We all do.
Sir.
As you become aware of that fact.
As you.
Come to the understanding.
That we all deserve peace.
See.
If you can settle into this moment.
A little more now.
Letting your body know.
That it's really time for rest.
Peace.
Lives within you.
It is a constant friend.
Waiting to be found.
Waiting to be felt.
Where does it live within you?
Maybe it's in your heart.
Maybe it's in your head.
It's up to you to find it.
But I promise you it's there.
Perhaps,
Allow a little gratitude now.
Gratitude.
Of the simple things.
.
.
.
Ew buddy.
The shelter you have tonight.
Are the ones you love.
And who love you.
For the beauty and wonder of this world.
Of this planet.
That you can find.
When you look for it.
3.
Begin to engage with your imagination now.
Begin to see.
The great city of New York.
Begin to feel curious.
About what you might discover here.
In this amazing place.
This site.
The sounds.
The smells.
Tonight you have an opportunity.
To go back in time.
Enjoy it.
Too.
Checking in with your body.
One more time now.
Finding the places you are holding still.
And allowing yourself to give in.
To allow the tension to ease away.
Your body has worked hard for you today.
It's time.
To give it rest.
And one.
Completely letting go now.
As I tell you.
Tonight's Sleep story.
It is a Wednesday.
In the middle of October.
1985 and you.
Are standing on the corner of 72nd Street.
And Lexington Avenue.
On the Upper East Side of Manhattan.
It is just stuff.
Raining.
The pavement is dark and wet.
The gutters are running.
The sky over the buildings.
Is the color of a pigeon.
And it may rain again later.
And that.
Is fine.
Because you have all day.
And know where you have to be.
There is a coffee cart on the corner.
It is as small.
Aluminum box on wheels.
With a stripe.
Morning.
And a man in a flat cap inside it.
And a blue flame.
Going under the urn.
Two dollars would buy you breakfast,
Dear.
With change to spare.
Coffee.
Is 50 cents.
A buttered roll is forty.
You ask for a coffee.
Regular.
Which in this city means milk and two sugars.
And he pours it into a paper cup,
You may remember.
Or may have seen in a photograph.
It is white and blue.
With a Greek key pattern round the rim.
And a picture of an amphora on the side.
And the word.
We are happy to serve you.
In gold.
Everybody in New York is drinking out of this cup this morning.
There are millions of them.
You stand with your back to a shop window.
And hold it in both hands.
And look at the street.
You is what you see.
Yellow cups.
More of them than any other kind of car.
And most of them are.
Square.
Chevrolet Caprices.
And forward LTDs.
With a black and white checked stripe down the side.
And every so often.
One of the old checkers goes past.
High and round-shouldered.
With jump seats in the back.
And a bumper like a park bench.
You see buses that are blue and white.
Brown UPS truck.
Private cars that are all straight lines and chrome.
An Oldsmobile Cutlass.
Abuse it.
A boxy grey Lincoln town car with a driver in a cup.
A little honder occurred.
That looks like a toy among them.
There are no cars on this street.
With rounded corners.
The people going past you to the subway are dressed for the office.
And this is the year.
Of the shoulder pad.
The women wear a suit.
With big,
Padded shoulders.
And elaborate blouses.
And skirts to the knee.
And very nearly all of them are wearing white sneakers.
I topped Reeboks with the tongue folded down.
And carrying their heels in a tote bag to change into at their desks.
This is normal.
It has been normal for five years.
Since the transit strike.
Their hair is big.
It is permed and sprayed.
Brushed up.
And air.
The men wear grey suits,
With wide lapels and narrow ties.
Or tan raincoats over the suits.
And a few of the younger ones have a little rat tail at the back of the neck.
And one goes by in a member's only jacket.
With the epaulettes and the little strap at the collar.
Which was expensive.
And he wants you to know it.
A boy in a Mets cap walks past with a boombox on his shoulder.
The size of a small suitcase.
And out of it.
At the 10 seconds he is in front of you.
Comes the Z100 Morning Show.
Scott Shannon and the Morning Zoo Scott Shannon is doing a bit about the World Series.
Which is being played this week in Kansas City.
Between the royals.
And the cardinals.
And then the boy is gone round the corner.
And the street goes back to itself.
You finish the coffee.
You drop the cup in the wire bin.
You will.
Halfway down the block,
There is a newsstand.
A green tin hut with the paper stacked in front.
Under a sheet of plastic against the rain.
And a man behind the counter.
In fingerless gloves.
Whose name.
According to the handwritten card taped to the shelf.
Is so.
Good morning.
Says so.
You say.
What's the news?
Sal turns the post round so you can read it.
The whole front page is one photograph and five words.
The five words are about Mayor Cook.
Who is up for re-election in three weeks.
And appears to be enjoying himself.
The daily news beside it.
As the series on the front.
And a picture of a man sliding into second base.
In a cloud of dust.
The New York Times has more words on its front page than the other two put together.
And no pictures at all above the fall.
And a headline about the Soviet Union.
Behind the sun.
On the rack.
Are the magazines.
And this is where your eye stays a while.
TV Guide.
The small one.
With the full lineup.
People.
Us.
Rolling stone with a singer on the cover.
Life.
And defer.
Newsweek.
There are comics in a spinner.
Superman.
And Spiderman.
G.
I.
Joe.
There are packs of Topps baseball cards.
With the stale pink gum inside.
There's bazooka gum.
And roles of lifesavers.
And lottery tickets.
Because the New York Lotto is only a few years old.
And everybody has a number as they play.
You buy the daily news.
Because you.
Like the photograph.
And you fold it under your arm.
So gives you your change and a notch.
You go on down Lexington.
You are not sure why you go into the grocery store.
Except that the door is open.
And the light inside is bright.
And yellow.
And it looks.
Warm.
The sign over the door says.
And Agostina.
In red letters on a white ground.
And the window is full of hand-lettered paper signs.
Chicken breast.
$1.
89 a pound.
Tropicana 99 cents.
Coke Classic 6-Pack $1.
99 You take a basket.
The floor is the speckled kind.
The aisles are narrow.
Because everything in Manhattan is.
.
.
And the shelves go high.
And the fluorescent tubes buzz overhead.
And a girl in a red smock who works in the supermarket.
Is stickering cans of Campbell's soup with a price gun.
One at a time.
With little orange price labels.
39 cents.
You walk the aisles slowly.
And you look at everything.
Here is the cereal.
And the boxes are exactly as tall as they used to be and there are.
Count Chocula.
And cap'n Crunch.
And frosted flakes with Tony the Tiger.
And a box of Wheaties.
With an Olympic gymnast on the front bench.
Here is the soda.
And there are two kinds of coke on the shelf.
Side by side.
The new coke in its silver and red can.
That came out in April.
And the old coat.
Which they have brought back after the whole country complained.
And which they are calling Coca-Cola Classic.
Nobody is buying the new one.
There is a whole shelf of it untouched.
There is tab.
The pink gun.
And fresher and shuster.
And RC.
And here are the freezer cases.
With the frost on the glass.
And inside them.
Lean Cuisine and stouffé's french bread pizza.
And jello pudding pups.
And echo waffles.
And Swanson TV dinners.
In the aluminum trays.
With the peas in their own compartment.
And here is the snack aisle.
Up tight.
Twinkies.
Little Debbie Oatmeal Pies fruit roll-ups.
Capri-sun in the silver pouches.
The Pyramid of Entenmann's Boxes with the clear window in the lid.
So you can see it's a crumb cake.
And here is the coffee.
Chuck full of nuts.
And Maxwell House.
And Sankha in the orange jar.
And here is the tea.
And here is Tang.
At the checkout.
There is a rack of gum.
And a rack of tabloids.
And a rack of TV guides.
And a girl with a feathered fringe.
And a name badge that says Denise.
She rings you up on a register with a paper tape.
That curls out of the top.
You have bought a bottle of Snapple.
Which isn't you.
And a Charleston chew.
Denise puts them in a brown paper bag.
With the top folded over twice.
And says,
Have a good day.
And you go out into the street.
And it is.
Raining a little again.
And you don't.
You walk down Lexington in the rain with the paper bag under your coat.
And you cross at 59th.
And there.
On the corner.
Is a window full of televisions.
The store.
Is Crazy Eddie.
You may remember as a commercial.
A man shouting and waving his arms.
Telling you his prices were insane.
This is one of his stories.
And the whole front window is a wall of television sets.
Stack.
Or high.
And eight across.
In woodgrain cabinets.
And blessed.
Plastic.
Sony Trinitrons and to zenith.
And RCA's with the price tags taped to the corners.
$299.
99 349 Four hundred and forty nine dollars.
And every one of them is switched on.
And attuned to something different.
You stand under the awning out of the rain and look and one.
The Morning Show.
Which is the local show on Channel 7.
With Regis Philpin.
And a woman with a very wide smile called Kathy Lee.
Who started in the summer.
And the next.
Phil Donahue with his microphone.
Walking up the aisle of his studio audience.
With his glasses on top of his head.
And the necks the news.
Channel 4.
And a map.
Of the weather.
On the next a soap opera.
With a woman in shoulder pads.
Slapping a man in shoulder pads.
On the neck.
A rerun of the Brady Punch.
And on the sets that are not tuned to anything.
The store has pushed a videotape on.
Playing the shows that everybody will be watching tonight.
In order to sell the sets.
Family ties.
With Michael J Fox in a tie and braces.
Choose and the path.
And everybody shouting norm.
Dynasty.
With Joan Collins in a hat the size of a wheel.
Miami Vice or pastel and palm trees.
Don Johnson in a white jacket with the sleeves pushed up.
A brand new show called The Golden Girls.
For women on a sofa in Florida.
Which started only a month ago.
And which everyone is already talking about.
Amen.
On the biggest set in the middle.
The one with the $899 price tag.
Wheel of fortune.
And Pat Sajak and Vanna White Turning the letters one by one in a sequined dress.
And a contestant in a perm.
Buying a vow.
A man comes out of the store in a crazy Eddie Polo shirt to smoke a cigarette under the awning beside you.
He lights it with a match.
You're looking for a TV?
He says.
Just looking.
You say.
Everybody's just looking.
He says comfortably.
And he watches Vana turn a letter.
And so do you.
And the rain comes down on the awning.
And the curbs go past and the whole of 59th Street is reflected upside down.
In the wet pavement.
You hear the cup.
Because you are tired of the rain.
And because you have never yet hailed a cab in New York in 1985.
And want to know what it is like.
It is like?
You step off the curb and put one arm up and a yellow checker.
One of the old ones.
Swings across two lanes and stops in front of you.
With the wipers going You guys in the back.
The seat is deep and soft and cracked.
There is a great deal of room.
There is a jump seat folded up against the partition.
And the partition is thick,
Scratched plexiglass.
Was a little tray at the bottom for the money.
And the meter on the dashboard is a black box with red numbers.
And the driver's license in its frame says His name is Bernie Kaplan.
Where to?
Says Bernie.
Central part.
You see.
The west side.
Tavern on the green.
Tavern on the Green,
Says Bernie.
And he flips the flag on the meter.
And the cap moves off And the whole car sways like a bird.
The radio is on.
It is tuned to WNEW FM 102.
7 the rock station.
And the man on the air has a voice like gravel in a barrel.
And that is Scott Muni.
Who has been on New York radio for 30 years.
And will tell you so.
He plays dire straits,
Money for nothing.
Which is everywhere this autumn.
And then Bruce Springsteen.
As in New York in 1985.
It is against the law to go more than three songs without Bruce Springsteen.
And then Bernie reaches over.
And turns the dial without asking.
And it is 1010 WINS.
All news all the time.
You give us 22 minutes and we'll give you the world.
And a man reads the traffic on the FDR.
You from here.
Says Bernie.
Into the mirror.
You say.
I could tell.
Says burn it.
You look around too much.
People from here don't look up.
He turns onto Central Park South.
And the trees come up on the right.
Yellow.
And orange.
And dripping.
Best city in the world.
He says.
I've been driving a taxi in it since 1961.
You know what I've never done.
I've never been to the top of the Empire State Building.
Never once.
Don't you believe that?
I believe it.
You say.
Neither do I.
Just burn it.
He tells you about his daughter.
Who is at Brooklyn College.
And about the Mets who broke his heart in September.
And about the giants who were going to break it in December.
And about the pastrami at the Carnegie Deli.
Which he says is a sandwich you need two people for and then he swings the cap in through the park gate.
At 67th Street.
And goes up onto the trees.
And the fare is $4.
40.
And ye give him six,
And tell him to keep it.
And he says.
.
.
Go up the Empire State for me.
And the checker pulls away.
Into the rain.
If you have ever seen a photograph of Tavern on the Green You know that it is the least restrained restaurant in America.
And in 1985 It is at the very top of its game.
It sits at the edge of Central Park like a wedding cake.
That has been left out in the rain.
And every tree around it.
Is hung with thousands of tiny white lights.
Which are on even now.
At half-past twelve on a wet Wednesday inside.
It is all glass and mirrors.
Brass and chandeliers.
And the room they put you in is the crystal room.
Which has a glass roof and glass walls.
And looks out into the trees.
You were eating in the park.
And out of the rain at the same time.
There is a candle in a glass on your table.
There is a starched white cloth The waiter is called Anthony.
Into you.
Is an actor.
And every waiter in this building is an actor.
And he tells you the specials in a voice that would reach the back of any theatre on Broadway.
You have the chicken.
And a glass of white wine.
And a slice of chocolate cake.
That arrives on a plate the size of a hubcap.
None do you take Pure.
At the next table there is a woman in a red suit.
With shoulders out to here.
And.
.
.
Having lunch with her mother.
Who has come in from New Jersey for the day.
And the mother keeps saying Well,
Isn't this something?
And looking up at the chandeliers.
And the daughter keeps saying Ma,
Eat your salad.
Across the room there are four men in suits.
We're doing a deal.
And you can tell it is going well.
Because they have ordered a second bottle.
By the window.
There is a couple who are clearly on honeymoon.
And who have not looked at the park once.
You look at the park for them.
The rain comes down through the trees.
And the little lights shine in it.
And a carriage goes by on the path with the hood up.
And a grey horse with a plume on its head.
And somewhere out there.
Past the trees.
Is the sheep meadow.
And the lake.
And the rest of the afternoon.
The rain stops while you are paying.
Which is polite of it.
And you walk into the park.
It is at its best in October.
The leaves are down on the paths.
In a wet gold layer.
And the trees.
Still have plenty left to drop.
You go along the path past the carousel and up to the sheep meadow.
Which is a great,
Open,
Green field.
With the skyline standing around it.
And you.
Even on a wet Wednesday.
There are people.
A man throwing a frisbee for a dog.
Two women in matching pink leotards and leg warmers,
Jogging.
With headbands.
A boy on a skateboard.
A real one.
Wide.
With the tail kicked up.
On a bench under a tree.
A girl in a denim jacket.
With a Walkman on her belt.
And the little orange foam headphones over her ears.
Reading a paperback with a cracked spine.
With her eyes closed.
Listening.
You go on.
Up to Bethesda Terrace.
With its great stone stair And the angel on her fountain.
You stand at the top and look out at the lake.
Which is grey.
And still.
And the rowboats are all pulled up.
And turned over for the day.
At the top of the steps there is a man with a cart.
And the cart has a charcoal fire in it.
And on the fire he is roasting chestnuts.
And warming pretzels.
And this is the best smell in New York.
In October.
And there is no argument.
About that.
You buy a bag of chestnuts for a dollar.
They come in a little paper bag that goes see-through with the heat.
You stand at the stone rail and peel them and eat them,
One at a time.
And they burn your fingers.
And you do not care.
Two teenage girls come up the stairs.
With their hair sprayed into a great feathered wool.
And swatch watches,
Three each,
Up one arm.
Talking about someone called Kevin.
A man goes by in a jogging suit.
The colour of a traffic cone.
A nanny pushes a pram past.
Was a child inside.
In her.
And the child looks at you.
And you look at the child.
And the child looks away first.
Above the trees.
To the South.
The towers stand up grey in the grey afternoon.
The Plaza Hotel is down there too.
Not the corner of the park.
With its green copper roof.
That is where you are staying tonight.
But not yet.
You come out of the park at Fifth Avenue and walk down it slowly.
Fifth Avenue in 1985.
Is a parade.
Here is FAO Schwartz.
With a doorman dressed as a toy soldier.
And a window full of Cabbage Patch Kids.
Everyone with a different face.
Here is Tiffany.
With the little blue boxes in the window.
Here is Bergdorf Goodman.
With its windows dressed all ready for the season.
Here is sex.
And Cartier.
And Saint Patrick's Cathedral.
With its two spires black.
In the wet.
And here.
On a side street of Fifth.
Wedged between a shoe repair and a dry cleaner.
Is a pizza place.
With no name that you can see.
Only a sign in the window that says lies.
One dollar.
In red plastic letters.
And encounter.
And behind the counter.
A man in a white t-shirt.
And a gold chain.
And behind him the oven.
Old Brick Deck Oven with the fire going in the back of it.
And the whole place is warm.
And smells of burnt flour.
And oregano.
What'll it be?
A slice.
He pulls a slice off a pie.
That has been sitting on the counter.
Slides it on to appeal.
Puts it in the oven for a minute.
Takes it out.
Folds a paper plate round it.
And pushes it across with a shaker of red pepper.
You eat it standing up at the shelf in the window,
Folded in half.
And it is the best dollar you have spent all day.
On the wall.
There is a signed photograph of a Yankee.
And a calendar from a plumbing supply company.
And a little radio on the shelf above the oven.
Tuned to WCBS FM.
The oldies station.
Playing the Four Seasons.
And the man behind the counter.
Sings along under his breath.
And does not know he is doing it.
Begins to rain again.
As you finish your pizza.
And you stand in the doorway.
And it is a fine place to wait.
While you watch the rain.
Across the street,
A Cadillac sedan to fill the length of a boat.
Idles up the curb with its wipers going.
A messenger on a bicycle goes past in the rain.
With a whistle in his teeth.
And a chain round his waist.
Two women come out of sacks with the big brown bags.
Put them on their heads and run for a cup.
A man in a trench coat walks past.
Reading the Wall Street Journal.
Fold it into a long narrow strip.
And does not look up.
And does not get wet.
Because he has done this a thousand times.
You look in the window of the shoe repair next door where a man is sitting at a machine.
With a leather apron on.
Re-souling a pair of loafers.
And he looks up and nods and you nod back.
And then you decide to walk despite the rain and you walk down 5th to Rockefeller Center.
And the flags of all the nations are hanging wet on their poles.
And the sunken plaza below.
Is set up for the skating rink.
But the ice is not down yet.
So it is a restaurant with umbrellas.
Radio City is round the corner with its great red marquee.
And the marquee says the Rockettes are rehearsing for the Christmas Spectacular.
Which opens in November.
And there are posters up for a concert next week.
And a movie theatre across the street.
As back to the future on its marquee in black letters.
Still playing.
Because it has been playing all summer.
Nobody wants it to stop.
The light is going.
The street lamps come on.
In every window,
On every floor of every building.
The lights are on.
Go.
And the whole of Midtown is stacked up in the dusk.
Like a shelf of lit boxes.
And you stand there.
On the corner of 50th and 5th.
With your hands in your pockets and just.
Look at it for a while.
At dinner.
You go to the Russian Tea Room on 57th Street.
Next door to Carnegie Hall.
Because in 1985 it is the most famous restaurant in the city.
And because it is always Christmas inside.
That is not a figure of speech.
This famous restaurant.
Keeps its Christmas decorations up all year round.
And has done for decades.
And so you come in out of the wet October darkness through the revolving door.
Into a long red room with green walls.
Tinsel on the lamps.
And gold baubles hanging from the ceiling.
And red leather blankets.
And every table lit by a little lamp with a red shade.
And the whole place glowing.
Like the inside of a jewelry box.
The man at the door is called Gregory.
And he has been here for longer than anyone can remember.
He seats you on a banquette on the left hand side.
Which is the site where the famous people sit.
You have to push.
Which is a deep,
Dark red.
And comes with a spoonful of sour cream floating on top.
And then you have chicken and bellini for dessert with cherry jam.
The waiter wears a red tunic with a high collar and gold froggings.
The woman at the next table is a dancer.
You can tell from her feet And she is eating alone with a script propped against the water jug.
Across the room.
Two silver-haired men in black tie are eating before a concert next door.
And one is telling the other a long story.
And the other is laughing so much.
He has to put his fork down.
The rain runs down the window beside you.
The little red lamp on your table is warm on the back of your hand You take a long time over the bleeding.
Outside.
On 57th Street.
The doorman steps to the curb and raises one gloved hand.
And a cup pours in a caprice this time.
With an ad on the roof.
And the door is opened for you.
And you slide in.
Plaza.
You see.
The plaza.
Says the driver.
Who is a young man in a Yankees jacket.
And his license says.
Andre Wilson Depose out onto 57th.
And turns up towards the fire.
And the radio is on.
It is WCPSFM again.
And it is evening now.
And the man on the air is Cousin Brucie.
Bruce Murrow.
It was the biggest thing on New York radio when this driver's parents were young.
And who is still going.
And who talks to the whole city.
As if they were sitting on the end of his bed.
He plays the runet.
Plays Dion.
He says.
Cousins.
It's a wet one out there tonight.
So stay in.
Put the kettle on.
And stay with me.
And undresses.
He always says that.
And turns it up.
Andre asks if you had a good day.
You say you did.
He asks what you did.
You tell him.
The cart and the newsstand.
In the grocery store.
And the televisions and the park.
And the pizza and the tea room.
And he laughs and says That's a whole New York in one day.
And then he says,
You left out the Empire State.
And do you say that Somebody else has already mentioned that.
And he says There you go.
He turns on to Central Park South with the park black and wet on the left.
And the horses standing under their blankets at the kerb.
And the plaza comes up ahead.
With all its windows lit.
And to the flags out front.
And the fountain in the little square in front of it.
And it is a hundred yards.
And a dollar fifty.
And Andre pulls in under the canopy and the doorman in the long coat and the cap as your door opens.
Before the curb has stopped.
Good night now.
Says Andre.
Sleep well.
This Lobby has been in a hundred films.
The floor is marble in a pattern.
The ceiling is high and gilded.
There are palms in brass pots.
And great vases of white flowers on the tables.
And off to the left.
Is the palm court.
Under its glass roof.
Wear a man in a dinner jacket.
Is playing a grand piano.
To a room that is nearly empty.
And where afternoon tea was served at four.
And will be served again tomorrow.
The desk is long and dark,
And the clerk behind it.
Whose name is Mr.
Lindquist.
As a moustache.
And a fountain pen.
And a big.
Leather register.
He writes your name in it by hand.
Because that is still how it is done here.
The lift is brass.
With an attendant.
An old man in a green uniform.
Who works the lever himself.
And it goes up slowly.
And stops with a small settling.
And the doors fold back.
Your room is on the 8th floor.
On the park side.
And it is high-ceilinged and quiet.
With a thick carpet and heavy curtains,
And a bed with more pillows than any one person could need.
And a radiator under the window that is ticking with heat.
And the window itself.
When you draw back the curtains.
Is full of the park.
He stunned at it for a while in the dark.
With the room warm behind you.
Down below.
59th Street is a line of lumps.
And the curbs slide along it.
Yellow.
Yellow.
Yellow.
And the horse carriages are lined up at the curb with their little lanterns lit.
And the drivers in their top hats and umbrellas.
Waiting for the last customers of the night beyond the street.
The park is a great dark square.
With the paths marked out in strings of lumps.
And beyond the part.
On the far side the towers of the west side.
Stand up in the rain.
With their windows lit.
And above them the sky is orange.
With the light of the whole city.
Bouncing back.
Of the cloud.
And there is no moon.
And no star.
And no need.
For it is.
You get into bed.
The sheets are heavy.
And cold.
And then.
Slowly warm.
The pillars go on forever.
The radiator ticks under the window.
And the curtain is open an inch.
And through the end.
The city glows.
You think about the coffee cart.
And the blue and white cup.
You think about Denise at the checkout.
And the shelf of new coke that nobody wanted.
You think about Vanna White turning a letter.
And Bernie.
Who has never been up the Empire State.
And the chestnuts at the top of the stairs.
And the red lamp on the table at the tearoom.
And cousin Brucie.
Telling the whole city to stay in.
And put the kettle on.
Don't you think that you might go up the Empire State Building tomorrow?
A boney.
And then.
.
.
You do not sing.
About anything.
Because the city is doing all the thinking tonight.
Eight floors down.
And all the way to the river and beyond.
Millions of windows and millions of kettles and millions of televisions.
With half the alien on them.
And none of it needs you.
And all of it.
Is keeping the night warm.
And you go down into sleep.
With the park at the window.
And the rain on the glass.
And the year 1985.
Going quietly on.
Outside.
Without you.
