Two Ghosts

There are two ghosts that hang out under the Triboro Bridge. Well, one of them is a ghost, and the other is from the future, so it's hard to say exactly what he is. Also, the bridge is now called Robert F. Kennedy.

Some people say the one that's definitely a ghost is RFK himself, but it's not that simple. Contrary to popular opinion, ghosts are very rarely the reincarnation or representation of just one person. Usually they represent whole groups of the former living, and in very special cases an entire generation.

The mistaken-for-RFK ghost definitely shares the young politician's idealism, his desire for equality and justice for all citizens. On several occasions homeless people sleeping on the stretch between Randalls Island and Manhattan have reported inexplicable occurances. Frank Hemer curled up under a tarp on a December night when it was snowing lightly, and when he woke up he found himself covered in a fleece blanket, a clean fleece blanket with no tags or labels to identify it. The next day Frank showed up at a shelter near his old house in Mount Vernon, and after two months of rehab, he found a Section Eight apartment and a job as a street sweeper.

The other ghost (who is not a ghost) spends most of his time playing jokes. On sunny afternoons he floats over to the driving range on the island. He sneaks onto the field and taps on the glass of the cart that collects the balls, making the driver panic and swerve and think about the rumors of ghosts that he and the other employees joke about over drinks after work on the patio under an umbrella where you can see the elevated highway and the track stadium and the same high-rise apartment building repeated over and over on the upper East side.

Other times the ghost (who is not a ghost) throws garbage into the river, or puts tacks on the road and waits for flat tires. And sometimes he just sits by the Cirque du Soleil tent and reads the program, awed by the power and beauty of the performers' feats of contortion and grace.

The RFK ghost makes a point of recognizing this reverence that the ghost (who is not a ghost) has for this one thing and this one thing alone. It's enough of a scrap of decency for the RFK ghost to believe in the ghost (who is not a ghost), to believe that he must have had a bad upbringing or that something unexpected and tragic happened to him, that he isn't really as bad as he likes to make himself seem.

"We can go in if you want."

"In what?"

"There." RFK Ghost pointed a transparent finger at the blue and yellow tent, the light poles near the top glowing like stars against the red and purple sunset to the west.

"I already went."

"What did you think?"

The ghost (who was not a ghost) looked down at the brown sludge of the dirt road and then at the RFK ghost. "I think the dancers are fooling themselves and everyone who watches them. I think they practice so hard to get their routines and their bodies to a state of absolute perfection, and I think that when they perform people think that what they are seeing is perfect, that the laws of physics and human anatomy are being broken and finally we have proof that it's possible to achieve anything you set your mind to. But this flawless spectacle rides on the back of friends and family left behind, innate desires squelched, injuries ignored, until one day the body ages and the dancers are used up and they're cast back to the life they've left behind and there's nothing left to do but wait for the end."

"I think you're taking it all too seriously."

"Probably." He lay down on the grass and listened to the low rumble of the music in the tent. The performers were preparing for another sold-out show.