URBAN DAWN
(A
parody, with apologies to Michael Beers and urban paddlers everywhere)
by Mike McCrea
Robert E. Lee Park at dawn, in the soft glow of the mercury vapor lights, the wafting scent of raw sewage and urban decay fills the air. A solo kayak, a fully vaccinated paddler, something brown and greasy floating past. Could it get any better?
A nice flow and getting thicker, as oily freshets of highway runoff cascade down storm drains. The thrum of car tires on the concrete canopy obscures all other sound and the haze of a code red ozone day curtains the view.
The wail of a passing ambulance startles a young crack addict crouched glassy eyed in a rubbish heap, no sight, sound or functioning gray matter alerts him until the bow of a kayak slips alongside, mere feet from his hooded sweatshirt. He bolts, stumbling through a maze of rusty household appliances and, slowed by his sagging pants and high-drawn boxer shorts, scrabbles up a litter choked embankment.
Spinning into an eddy beneath the Falls road bridge a wave of debris surges past the kayak: pale prophylactics, used syringes, more brown greasy floaters. Time for an antibacterial scrub and fresh surgical gloves.
Off again. Pushing through a raft of old styrofoam, plastic bags and discarded cans and bottles, a ghost in the ghetto. A wino, seemingly little perturbed, sips from a bottle of Nighttrain and staggers alongside for a moment before tripping over a sodden roll of carpet.
The dawns early light brings the full spectrum of bankside color into view; "Killah Boyz 4-evah", "RIP Skankyman" "No trespassing under penalty of law".
A sleeping hooker, motionless in faded halter-top, rests in a cardboard box. The whine of car tires and blaring sirens fades for a moment, then resumes with mind-numbing intensity as the morning rush hour builds. The sound of the river's first plunge is unheard beneath this auditory onslaught and remains hidden in the smoke of a burning trash fire until the kayak slices through, grinding off the concrete wall before halting suddenly on a piece of rusty rebar.
Another bridge eddy, sheltering beneath the light rail overpass, time for a thorough scrubdown and a tetanus booster. Round Falls emerges and flashes past, as the sirens grow louder.
The siren fades, then ceases altogether, and soon only the whump of a police helicopter rotor and the blare of truck horns pierces the morning air. As the chopper passes the boom of an over amplified sub-woofer begins to rattle the nearby trestle and a soft rain of rust particles descends.
Another bankside trash dump, more graffiti and then the effluent from a failing sewage treatment plant chimes in, flowing thickly, carrying odiferous messages from nearby neighborhoods - Mount Washington, Park Heights, Hampden. Contrary to popular belief the contributions from Ruxton and Roland Park do in fact stink. Time now to adjust the nose plugs and mouth breathe.
41st Street looms overhead and a passing commuter leans on his horn and thrusts a raised middle finger at an MTA bus. Soon the take out appears and it's time for a decontaminating alcohol rub, time to wrap those paddling clothes in a bio-waste bag, time to visit the emergency room for a quick infectious disease check up.
Could it get any better?
Mike McCrea's hair
can finally be explained by his latest canoe trip through Baltimore.
©Get Lost Magazine 1999-2010