Prospect Park, NYC

I never wanted to write about New York. I didn't want to be one of those writers whose every line drips with condescension as they describe their caustic disregard for the flights of fashion that rule this town while simultaneously insinuating that no one else can possibly fathom the deep cultural significance of the shallowness they are at pains to disdain. It just feels like a manipulation game that the reader is expected to want to be subjected to—if they’re cool enough to want it. It’s a kind of literary BDSM, with the same outfits, but without the payoff. But whether I wanted to write about New York or not, here I am. Because when one writes and lives in New York, well, it’s just too big to ignore. It’s like your mom. At some point, a writer will have to write about their mom, and if they don’t have a mom, they will have to write about the absence of their mom. But if New York were your mom, it would always leave the windows rolled up when it ran into the grocery store.

Still, if I am going to write about New York, then I am going to start in one of my favorite places in the city. It’s the kind of place anyone can relate to. It’s a big piece of grass and trees that is quiet and removed from all of the insanity and smells, and within its confines at least, the rent is always the same. I will start in Prospect Park.

I like to run in Prospect Park. When I first moved to New York, this was an activity I did between cigarettes. But the running outlasted my bad-boy mystique, especially after said mystique was replaced with lying awake at night wondering if that mystery pain was cancer. I discovered the running loop in the park pretty quickly after moving here, and it became one of my favorite things. It is important, when you move to New York, to find things that provide you some solace, and at least one or two of those things should not be classified as a controlled substance. New York is tough to adjust to, and you need to have a hold on what being in this city means for you. Otherwise, you are at the whims of a place that charges one dollar for a slice of pizza and twelve for a mini-cupcake.

I think this is why I know so many people here who have their home state tattooed on their bodies. Only an intense sense of dislocation and uncertainty could get someone to pay that kind of homage to a place like Alabama. I have been to Alabama. The only good thing about Alabama is that it is easy to avoid, so getting a tattoo of the place is either a rash reaction to being completely out of your comfort zone or a total lack of decision-making abilities. I choose to think the first reason is the case because, full disclosure, I dated a girl with an Alabama tattoo for several months, and I really liked her, and she might read this. (Fuller disclosure: It is highly doubtful she gives enough of a shit about what I am up to these days to read this.)

Besides that, I am not above it. I do not have a tattoo of Missouri. There is no level of despair such a thing could fix. But I think I definitely romanticized being the outsider and played up my rural roots when I first moved here. Being from a hillbilly trailer park background is something you would avoid talking about in St. Louis because, in St. Louis, everyone is just one drunk and disorderly away from ending up in a double-wide themselves. One does not want to look too deeply into that particular abyss. There lies a sort of Lovecraftian monster with a gun license and indiscriminate sexual tastes.

But in New York, all of these things are exotic. That little hint of an accent that would make you suspect back home is mysterious here. It says that you come from somewhere unique. You have had a different life before the one we all now share on the subway platform. What secret powers might that confer, one wonders? Can you fix a car? How about a muscle car? What about one that has been jumped over a police cruiser? Do you know the secret to getting an arrow to fly straight when shot from a muscle car even though it has a stick of dynamite duct-taped to it? And rather than answer, I would just let that little bit of Ozark creep up under my vowels and let the pretty Jewish girl from Long Island make up her own mind.

So, yeah, I also hung on to delusions of being other. I had a Missouri tattoo of the mind. Sure, I have a favorite place in Fort Greene to get scones, a favorite sushi place that is only a few blocks from my favorite Indian food, but everyone has always known that I am a Good Ol’ Boy at heart. Even as I go jogging past the strollers in Prospect Park.

Then one day, I am doing just that. There is a long canopy of trees that hangs over the paved loop that takes you past The Picnic House. If you live in Brooklyn long enough, you will go to a wedding at The Picnic House, and it will make you feel self-conscious about your relative poverty. I emerge from the shade of these trees, run past a set of ball fields, and, on the other side, The Brooklyn Bandshell. Then there is a curve that takes you past the horseback riding class. This is one of the things Park Slope parents like to force their little Finns and Olivias to go to, and there is something adorable about the raw terror so many of the kids seem to have as they climb onto these broken-down trail horses that seem asleep on their feet. It is quite the trick to try and not draw the attention of something while you are sitting on its back. After the riding class, there is a long downhill slope. This has a matching uphill slog on the other side of the park, so I always try to enjoy this part while I can.

I had my iPod on (to date this story a bit) and was listening to This American Life. I was completely in the rhythm of the thing, my breathing and pace synced up with the calming musings of Ira Glass, when I noticed that a West Indian dude on a bike was shouting something at me, and he seemed frantic. So, I removed my headphones to hear him say, “Look out for the horse, man! Look out for the horse!” My first thought was how his accent was so much better than mine. Then I realized what he said.

“Look out for the horse?”

I turned to find one of the horses from the riding class was loose and coming down the hill, riderless, at a full gallop and gaining speed. He was headed right for me. Instantly, the Missouri kicked up, and my first thought was, “I got this.” I stopped and turned toward the oncoming beast. I pulled my hoodie from where I had it tied around my waist, took a sleeve in each hand, the rough notion being that I would toss this around the horse’s head and pull it to a stop—maybe even swing up on the damn thing and just ride him on out. I got into a ready stance because I knew, just by virtue of my redneck genetics, the proper positioning for reining in a runaway horse. Of course I did.

Then, much quicker than I had imagined, the horse was there. He was right on top of me, and his eyes were wide and full of the fire of sudden liberty, and I thought, What the fuck am I doing? I’m not gonna stop this fucking horse! There was no time to truly get out of the way, so I just edged to the side, tilted my body just so, and as he flew past me, I felt heat and sweat and fur as his flank brushed my shoulder.

Then I turned and watched the horse run out of the park. There was a shocked blaring of horns as he galloped through an intersection and disappeared into Windsor Terrace. I stared after him, my hands on my knees. Then, after a few minutes, a chubby 13-year-old in riding pants came running past in the same direction as the horse.

I rewound to where I had left This American Life and finished my run. But while I had entered the park thinking that being a Missouri boy made me special, I left it knowing that being a New Yorker made me not in a hospital.