#32. THE DREGS

 

#32. THE DREGS 

That’s what I call it. A hundred-foot stretch of path on the northwest edge of the park that’s a no-go for savvy visitors. You know you’re there when the air gets thick with smoke, some sweet smelling, some like camel dung. 

Everyone here is high, or helping others get high. A lot of nodding going on. Some sit. Some stand, slightly bent over, in poses of oblivion, staring into an abyss.Men, women, young, old. If you make eye contact, they might beg. Or try to make a sale. But mostly they fight among themselves. Or create trash. Under the benches grow piles of discarded take-out food containers. It’s the first place park cleaners come in the mornings. 

 And yet…20 feet on the other side of a low fence is a lawn thick with picnickers and moms with strollers and toddlers. The scene redefines the word juxtaposition. And exemplifies New Yorkers. You do your thing, I’ll do mine, and we’ll get along.

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