Rapture

Rapture – Blondie

‘Beware! Never receive the mark of the Beast! The number will be 666! If you receive it on your right hand or forehead, you will go to hell! Christ is coming! The Rapture is nigh!’ The man does not pause to breathe between exclamations. The end is so nigh that there is no time for any respiratory break, not even for dramatic effect. The man is holding a thumbed bible up to the false light illuminating the subway passage below 42nd Street, but his eyes stay transfixed to a point somewhere at the end of the long hallway, as if he expects god to come running around the corner any minute, to catch the last train home.
He knows what his bible says – and he knows what it means. Anyone who is not a true christian will be missing out on a one way ticket to heaven when Rapture comes; they will, instead, be forced to endure unspeakable sufferings under dictatorship of the Beast, who will dominate the earth in a terrifying reign of digital consumerism.
His sidekick, a woman with a mop of rather despondent hair, hands me a brochures as I pass, explaining it all in a step-by-step fashion: when Rapture is coming, how to recognize the signs, and – not irrelevant – what to do when it comes around and you are found wanting in the religious department (‘Suggestion # 1: do not panic; that is absolutely useless now.’[ ...] ‘Suggestion # 4: pray like you have never prayed before in your life.’). I for one am glad I got one. You never know!

The end of the world as we know it does not hold any secrets for the man and woman, and they must spread the word. After all, even habitual sinners deserve a shot at salvation, or at least an honest heads up. Now, what better place to find the lord’s lost causes than directly under Times Square, the decaying core of modern day Sodom and Gomorrah? Lines A, C and E Uptown to your right; lines 1, 2 and 3 Downtown to your left; every fork a gaping mouth to the pits of hell. The underground umbilical cord connecting Times Square and Grand Central turns and twists and throbs with prodigal souls. A highly maintained lady rapidly click-clacks by. ‘God’s wrath shall be upon all who take the mark of the Beast! The signs of the return of Jesus Christ our lord the savior are unmistakable!’ The lady sucks on her cheeks and curls her lips – a typical frown for the botoxed – in displeasure with such an exhibit of poor taste, and speeds up even more, her heels tapping a licentious dance on the hallway tiles.

Rapture-announcers in the US don’t have to rely on multi-interpretable bible predictions or random guesswork anymore; they have got a website, RaptureReady.com, ‘to standardize those components to eliminate the wide variance that currently exists with prophecy reporting’. Forget about christian Wikipedia and its creationist near-science: key feature of the Rapture site is a Rapture Index: the irrefutable, calculated probability, at any given time, for the prophesized Rapture to occur. The Index is based on a set of categories (Unemployment, False Prophets, Iran and Russia, Floods, and Liberalism, to name a few), each with their own weight to them, that add up to a number. That number is the Index, an accurate indication of prophetic activity, to be interpreted thus, according to the ‘prophetic speedometer’:
‘- Rapture Index of 100 and Below: Slow prophetic activity
- Rapture Index of 100 to 130: Moderate prophetic activity
- Rapture Index of 130 to 160: Heavy prophetic activity
- Rapture Index above 160: Fasten your seat belts.’

The Index at the time of writing, early September 2009: 163. Don’t say they didn’t warn you.

God Only knows

God Only Knows – The Beach Boys

On the corner of the street, next to the subway entrance of 96th Street and Broadway, a man holding a bible is shouting at his fellow men, a mound of brochures neatly stacked on the sidewalk. I pass him almost every day when I take the train. The man dictates and quotes unwearyingly – even on an ominously overcast August afternoon like this one. ‘For six days, work is to be done! But the seventh day is a Sabbath of rest! Holy to the LORD! Whoever does any work on the Sabbath day must be put to death!’ The man’s face flinches involuntarily. It is Sunday. Thank god he does not get any reimbursement for the warnings he is heeding to passers-by.
No need to repeat that god is almighty or that Jesus loves you; people know all that by now. What they don’t know, is that god can be mighty pissed off. And that it’s best to be on his good side when he gets angry. The lord is not squeamish when it comes to acting out his wrath, the man on the corner knows. ‘Hear Lucas 19:26-28! I tell you that to everyone who has, more will be given! But as for the one who has nothing, even what he has will be taken away! But those enemies of mine who did not want me to be king over them – bring them here and kill them in front of me!’

God is great in the US. Although numbers are dwindling slowly, 87% of the population still actively professes their belief in a higher power – or several. In New York City, catholics and protestants make for a respective 40 and 30% of that number (occupying over 200 churches); 8.5% is jewish (with a solid 50 synagogues), 3.5% is muslim (saying praise in a surprising 100+ mosques); 1% states to be buddhist (and does so in no less than 20 buddhist temples), and 13% (a bit poorly, in their own homes) either believes that god does not exist, or does not believe that god exists – not as a man with a beard, anyway. ‘That there’s something out there’ does not constitute as an official religion – at least, not that I know of. Among the 4% that is left non-specified are, at any case, enough people to fill 15 jehovah’s witness churches and a couple of hindu temples. I wonder where the man on the corner has found his niche.

It starts to rain, a genuine summer downpour. Within seconds, the man’s shoes are as saturated as his nylon suit. He does not mind. After all, Noah wasn’t intimidated by a little drizzle, now, was he? Within minutes, water is gushing along the sidewalks and the hopelessly under-equipped city sewers; over the steps and down the subway it goes. By the end of the day, water will be seeping through the cement construction and onto the heads of the men and women on the platforms below. For now, the man’s brochures soak together; next thing, they are swooped up by the rivulet and carried away, doomsday newsprint boats, to the sewers of West End Avenue. The man watches them go with a hint of nostalgia. He's not afraid of any upcoming floods. Bring it on, judgement day! There will be a seat saved for him on the boat.

Don't Tell Me

Don’t Tell Me – Madonna

I am spending the second weekend in August on island time. We’ve rented a beach cottage on Sanibel, a sheller’s dream dropped down the ankles of Florida like rat poo in the kitchen of a Chinese restaurant - small and inevitable. We're here to witness the wedding of our two friends. The bride to be and I have escaped the wet woolen blanket heat to check her email for last minute wedding ceremonial hiccups. As she starts up the lobby computer, I leaf through a Harlequin romance novel I found in the tiny bookcase next to the resort’s brochures. The Boss’s Inexperienced Secretary. As I vaguely wonder how mogul and typist are ever going to get each other in the end (what with the age difference, not to mention the polarities in temperament), a voice booms from behind. ‘Are you the line for the computer?’

My ‘Nope, we’re all together’ collides with my friend’s ‘Almost done, I am trying to print out these wedding ceremonies I’m supposed to choose from’. The man’s face lights up like fireworks down a mailbox. ‘Ahhh, the young lady is getting married? Congratulations! Well, well, aren’t you just cute as a button! And you’re the proud mother?’ he says as he turns to me, all smiles. The grand iceberg of my emotional range suffers instant meltdown, translating into a look on my face that hovers somewhere between an incredulous giggle (you’ve got to be kidding me!), a sub-zero smile (what the hell mister?!), and an anxious swallow (ohmygodIlooklikeamom?!).
Oblivious to my mental defrost, the man cries out, ‘Wouldn’t you know, it’s me and the wife’s fifteenth anniversary tomorrow! And we’re still happy as a clam, ha ha!’ Before I can even recuperate from my initial shock to either ignore or congratulate the man, he continues, ‘Of course it hasn’t been easy for her, what with me having the brain tumor and all. I’m in remission, it’s about the size of a golf ball now. I don’t feel sick or anything, what it does is it messes with my emotions and feelings, you know? I don’t know whether I’m mad or sad – or the people around me for that matter, ha ha! Who’d have thought that a little ball in your head could do that. Doc says it’s located right here, over my left eye!’ He points at a spot just above his right eye, delivers a glorious smile, and stops talking.

Americans have an uncanny talent for springing intimate information on random strangers with an air of spur-of-the-moment carelessness that makes for instant awkward conversation – at least, when that stranger is me. What are you supposed to do with something that private coming from someone you really don’t know? The thing is that this random candidness, on second glance, isn’t that impromptu, or personal, at all. To the average well meaning American, spilling the beans is just another way of making small talk, and subject to the same type of rules. You’ll receive a scripted monologue on someone’s medical history, or a detailed rendition of a life defined by bad decisions, but were you to ask an engaging question, your company will react as if stung by a bee, instantly on the defensive. Why are you prying into their personal affairs? And so your cordial attempt to diffuse the embarrassment backfires hopelessly. All of a sudden, everybody feels awkward. Best case scenario is that your company will frown upon your questions, and add commentary to your all-too-liberal, disaster-prone Old World etiquette. Silly European!

The man is still flashing his expectant smile. It’s obviously my turn to speak. I don’t even know this guy’s name. What can he possibly expect me to say? Don’t ask any questions! I remind myself. I take a deep breath and decide go for firm yet non-committal. ‘Jeez, mister, a brain tumor, that sounds like quite the ordeal.’ This is horrible! I fight the impulse to run out the door and jump into the Gulf of Mexico.
– ‘Well, doesn’t that just sum it up?’ the man replies happily. ‘Of course I had the skin cancer before, on my back. The sun’s pretty murderous out here, you know. That’s why I always keep my shirt on these days. Ha ha! Especially when I’m on the boat. I’m a sailor, you know. Been boating all my life. The wife didn’t care for it at first, but she likes it all the same now. Are you ladies going to rent a boat while you’re here?’ And just like that, we’re out of awkward time and back on island time.

Help!

Help! – The Beatles

The place is dark blue and ill lit. Coming in from the sun dappled street it feels like you stumble into a solar eclipse. Knifed to the wall are bodiless mannequin heads covered in what looks like candle wax. The atmosphere is moody and unstable – vampire’s lair meets the wildest little whorehouse in the West. Behind the entrance a deejay is crouched over a double deck, adding to the general confusion by drowning the place in a beat like a heart in frenzied fibrillation. My man and I are at the Diesel Fifth Avenue store, trying to locate a specific pair of jeans. The Diesel Fifth Avenue store is very current. We convince each other that our temporary night blindness and the consequential bumping into random displays is a small price to pay For Successful Living. As our eyes gradually get used to the semi-dark, we distinguish various piles of jeans mashed together in sideboards in a far corner of the store. I start to fear there is no way we are ever going to find what we came for. We decide to stay close together and wait. Anytime soon now, from all this interior designer’s limbo, our savior should appear.

Shopping for clothes on Manhattan usually means having a personal assistant at your beck and call.
– ‘Hi, I’m Brianna/LeShawn and I’ll be assisting you today. Can I set you up a changing room?’ The second you set foot inside, a girl or boy dressed in the leading smile of the season hurries over to help you out. After all, only they know exactly what the store holds, where everything is to be found and what size you really are.
Not all stores do assistants. Some just have a regular entourage of employees filling racks and cash register. The difference between the two types of store is astounding. Employees in a non-assistant store have no idea what brands the store carries; they couldn’t tell you where you can find that dress in the window if it would save their life. If anything, they will avoid you. Five more hours until my shift ends! their heads loll in dull anticipation.

All this, of course, applies to traditional stores. Diesel Fifth Avenue has little to do with tradition. Tradition is not current. Diesel Fifth Avenue is. However, from the darkened vapor surrounding us, far-away fog-horns (‘I wasn’t joking, try it in a size 12’ and ‘I already set up your changing room’) define the Diesel store as an assistant type of getup. So what is keeping our denim redeemer?

Then, in a sudden outburst of strobe lights, our eyes shoot Polaroids of a highly androgynous silhouette in skinny jeans standing quietly in the far corner. It must be an insider. Up close, the heavy-lidded eyes and pale complexion assure us this boy must spend a lot of time inside the store, but as we sidle up next to him, he looks the other way and appears perfectly unaware of our presence. Is he ignoring us?

– ‘Hi!’ I try. ‘Can you help us?’ The boy blinks. We look at him expectantly. He looks at something infinitely interesting, right over my left shoulder. ‘Hello there!’ I try again. ‘We are looking for these jeans and…’
– ‘Uhhh, yeah, so… I’m… uhhh…. Jimmy…?’ the boy asks rather unexpectedly, his bloodshot eyes slowly swimming into focus. ‘No, we’re not Jimmy. These jeans, we believe the model is…’ I continue, but the boy has already swiveled out of sight. I grab onto my man’s hand. ‘We should just get out of here!’ I whisper. That’s easier said than done. I am not even sure I can feel my way out of this premeditated puddle of boudoir chic. Then the air in front of us seems to condense – and the boy has reappeared, looking even more waif-like than before. This time he’s clutching a pair of jeans. ‘Yeah… so… these should do… Jimmy…’ he mutters blankly as he hands them over. ‘How do you know if it’s the right…’ I start, but my voice trails off. I am talking to thin air. The boy has gone up in smoke. This time he has vanished for good. We happenstance into a dim changing room; the jeans are a perfect fit. Next thing we know, the girl at the cash register is asking us who has been our assistant today. We’re not sure. She seems to understand. Damn, Diesel Fifth Avenue is current.

Pure Shores

Pure Shores – All Saints

The insides of my eyes glow a warm orange. Absolutely nothing on my mind. From a distance, unfamiliar voices buzz and hum and drum and laugh; every once in a while a high pitch toddler’s shriek jumps up above the pleasant drone. The muffled, underground noise of feet shuffling in the sand churns inside the cellar of my head. Overpowering the background of voices is the endless breaking of wave on rock. I absently brush some lazy sand off my belly. The sound of breakers is getting closer, louder. Way louder. A deafening roar. A bellowing howl. Something is about to come crashing down on my head. I squeeze my eyes shut tight, and then I remember: this is not a Dutch beach.
I am spending a day at Rockaway Beach in Queens, on what is rapidly becoming one of the most sweltering days so far this summer. The howling comes from the numerous airplanes leaving JFK Airport – their take off is routed straight over the beach. The planes shave so low over that you can easily recognize the carriers printed on the aluminum: Emirates, KLM, Lufthansa. On their way, undoubtedly, to exotic yet friendly beaches whose bathers need not fear it’s the end of the world, every fifteen minutes or so.

New York beaches aren’t cozy. You will find no rose, no lazy lounge music, no chaises lounges – and therefore no tourists. For lack of entertainment, there are plenty of lifeguards on the beach. Every 100 feet you find a high, orange chair looking out over the breakers. Alas, without the expected Baywatch glamour – riptides off the coast can be so mean and unpredictable that, on Rockaway Beach alone, over 30 swimmers have drowned in the past 10 years. A mile or so from where I lay, a three story high shark washed to shore only a few days earlier. In a couple of weeks, millions and millions of jellyfish will torment the unsuspecting swimmer. The Atlantic coast doesn’t do cozy; it does currents and jaws and tentacles.

I open one eye and draw myself up, resting on my elbows. A British Airways plane elegantly arcs across the horizon. Its screech slowly dwindles back down to the hypnotizing crash of summer day breakers. In the water, three gold bikinis fretfully try to keep their earrings and peroxide hair dry. Five muscled Speedos anticipate the perfect wave. A dozen small gulls are bombing the waves, kamikaze style. The sky is vibrating on the horizon. Surf’s up. The world won't end for another fifteen minutes or so; the wide range of chops and white-rolled back dead eyes are unseen for now, lurking in deeper waters. I am about to get mangled and muddled by the merciless pound of the Atlantic. Rose and lazy lounge music? I don't think so. Body surf, broken skin and a wild beating heart. That’s entertainment.

Castles Made Of Sand

Castles Made Of Sand – Jimi Hendrix

With the exception of Manhattan, all New York boroughs sport ocean beaches. Staten Island, Queens, Brooklyn, the Bronx: you can go for a swim anywhere you like – within the specific hours and confined boundaries set by the New York Coast Parks Commission, that is, but still. And that’s exactly what New Yorkers do on a hot summer day. However, spending a day of leisure at the beach is not as straightforward as it may sound. Bathers in New York are pretty much left to their own devices. Rockaway Beach in Queens sets a sad example, even on weekends. There is no ice cream truck, no burger joint, not a single chaise lounge to rent. There’s one hot dog guy, squeezed in between the public bathroom and a vendor of cheap sunglasses. A cover band plays Pink Floyd and CCR on a desolate playground, later in the afternoon. But that just about sums it up. No beach hotels, no promenade lined with shops, no restaurants. Not a beach pavilion in sight.

On any Dutch beach, you can’t slipper ten feet without stumbling into a pavilion, right on the beach. Lazy bikinis lounging on easy chairs or bean bags, sipping rose or enjoying a late supper; toes curled in the sand; a dj playing music. Even with Dutch summers being notoriously drizzly, there are still a dazzling 34 beach pavilions, making the best of a mere two miles of sandy beach in Scheveningen alone. The contrast couldn’t be any bigger.
Except maybe in comparison to Orchard Beach, lovingly dubbed the Rivièra of the Bronx, where 90% of its visitors don’t even make it to the crescent shaped beach; the parking lot and meadow leading to the sand, on the other hand, are cram packed with families having extensive barbecues. Elaborately set tables, party tents, music, and laughter in Spanish. Fun and cozy as it looks, it’s hardly a day at the beach.

New York City makes for one of the most enthusiastically developed pieces of land in the world. How come its beaches are still left unscathed? (Alright, to be fair, things are stirring in the world of coastline development – but slowly, very slowly. The vacant lot behind the Rockaway boardwalk promises a beach resort, with a YMCA. And a Pizza hut. ‘In a future phase’, according to carefully placed signs along the empty road. For now, unkempt weeds and wildflowers are skyrocketing on site. No one has been constructing anything here lately.)

The one beach that offers some kind of entertainment is Brooklyn’s Coney Island. To get to the water one must pass through the wonderfully derelict Coney Island amusement park donning the scariest ride ever (signs along the line boast: This wooden ride hasn’t changed since 1928! Sufferers from heart disease enter at own risk!) and past two and a half viciously competitive hot dog sellers (signs along the boardwalk warn: These tables are only for Giro Corner customers. Not for Nathans!). The beach itself looks a little forlorn. More shards than shells. A handful of overweight, overly tan Russians sagging in little home-brought chairs dominate the scene. And again, not a beach pavilion in sight.

You Never Give Me Your Money

You Never Give Me Your Money – The Beatles

A man in a wheelchair just got on the subway. He pushes off the platform with his left leg; the right one is amputated well above the knee, a helpless stump that nonetheless moves with every physical exertion. With visible pains he maneuvers around seats and poles until he screeches to a wobbly halt in the centre of the near-empty car. It’s a steamy hot Friday morning in July; rush hour has just died away on the A-train to Far Rockaway Beach. ‘I’m messed up!’ the man says. ‘Gimme some change.’ The few travelers in the car try their best to ignore him – including me. Still, our averted eyes cannot ignore the ripe smell that is clinging to the man like a wet fur coat. The man winds his chair around a pole a couple times and tries again. ‘Listen yall, I’m just completely fed up with this shit. Come on. Just gimme some cash.’

In the summertime the number of beggars and buskers on the New York train seems to explode. Every line reveals people making the most of their bad situation: they sing a song, do a little dance, sell candy, rap, tell their story, juggle, recite poetry, and in turn they accept small change from travelers. It’s great, really: no need for anyone to be self-conscious or embarrassed, for nobody is bluntly asking for money, and it is only natural that displayed talent does not go unrewarded. Smiling faces everywhere. Everybody wins. Except, of course, this guy, who has no leg and no talent – he doesn’t even have a sob story. Could be he’s genuinely worn out; could be he’s a genuine dick. Maybe he just told his story one time too many.
Maybe he simply does not have any skill whatsoever – not even to ask nicely.
Television gives you one commercial after another for the Financially Challenged. For every car commercial there’s a law firm commercial sporting an official-looking spokesman guaranteeing have-nots a small fortune. The most promising one is from LawyersGroup. ‘Were you injured in a car accident? Does your child suffer from birth injuries? Do you have brain injuries? Did you fall or slip? Get fired? Bit by a dog? Die a wrongful death? There is no reason you should keep suffering financially or mentally any longer. Contact an injury lawyer in your area NOW absolutely FREE and get the money you deserve!’
The man has a minute to explain how everyone is entitled to damages of some kind or other – even if you bit the dog first. The company’s website, LawersGroup.com, explains things in further detail. ‘Even if you are partially responsible for your injury, you still may be entitled to money, depending on the amount of blame that is placed on you.’ If you can believe the narrator on TV (the phrases ‘not an actual lawyer’ and ‘compensated spokesperson’ flash onscreen, next to his tie), there is really no reason anyone should stay poor in the States. The thought that starts tapping the belly of your brain the tenth time around, is, inversely: if you don’t even have the talent to get some kind of legal compensation for your misfortune, you will end up getting exactly what you deserve. Which is absolutely nothing.

Meanwhile, our car is shrouded in an uncomfortable silence. Then, a crisp clear woman’s voice sounds over the intercom. ‘There are vagrants on this train. Please do not give them any money. Help us keep the MTA safe and operating in an orderly fashion.’ The voice falls silent. The man has listened intently, his face screwed up, head cocked towards the speakers. He now lets his chin drop onto his chest. The train snorkels on forever. Every ripple on the tracks has all of us lolling involuntarily back and forth in our seats in unison, wheelchair and stump included.

When the train finally comes to a halt, the man reels onto the platform on his hind wheels. Not to the exit. He turns to face the little window in the car next to mine, to the tiny compartment containing the lady who announces all stops and ensures nobody gets stuck between the doors – she must be the one who broadcast just now that we shouldn’t give money to beggars. He points a finger at her, trembling with rage. ‘Why the hell d’you say that, goddammit?’ he screams. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ The lady leans out the window, towering over him. ‘Sir, just leave, before I call security,’ she says. The man is determined not to be intimidated. ‘How am I supposed to get my money now, bitch? Yo! I’m talking to you, bitch!’ he keeps yelling up at her. A genuine dick. The lady is hardly impressed. She knows the MTA angry passenger flowchart by heart; she has dealt with tougher customers. ‘Those are the rules. I do not make the rules. I am just doing my job. Have a nice day,’ she says dismissively. A born public officer. She closes the window and pushes the button for the doors. I can’t make out what the man yells after her as the subway accelerates, but I’m pretty sure they both deserve better.