Upper West Side, Unsolicited

By Yvonne Vávra

I know too much. Information just keeps coming in and in and in, and there’s never enough time to process it before the next stimulus comes knocking on my braineroni. So, in hopes of freeing my mind from the overflow, I went on an epic stroll this week. Bad idea. The moment you step outside, you’re diving into a stream of unsolicited information. I know way too much now.

I know that a woman on 67th Street was on her way to something important, proving from hair to heels that this was absolutely her day. A school bus was begging—begging!—for an engine from this century. A kid in a stroller did not like the overall situation of being outside. And an Amazon worker was on the phone with someone who didn’t seem to understand that no, that’s not what this is about, bro.

Someone with a honk idling in front of Magnolia Bakery needed someone to do something about something. Two dogs didn’t like the smell of each other. The food at Carrot, between 76th and 77th on Broadway, is, as a sign outside informed me, kid-approved. And pigeons on 78th Street had a very good day, courtesy of a man who scattered enough crumbs on the ground to make sure the rats got some, too.

I also know that a lot of buildings are living through trying times, having drills driven into their faces, their feet, or who knows where else. 260 West End Avenue, the corner building at 72nd Street, had nothing less than the rug pulled out from under it. Two-thirds of the sidewalk it leans on had been dug up, with rubble bubbling up from the Upper West Side’s underbelly.

There’s more. Someone in a car wanted us to know that Billy Idol’s “Dancing With Myself” is a very blastable song, and I agree. The man who arranges the flowers at the deli at 87th Street and Amsterdam has a beautiful smile. And someone apparently took 18 blocks to finish their fries—from the McDonald’s between 95th and 96th Street to the empty box they discarded between 77th and 78th Street on Broadway. Or six blocks, if they came from the McDonald’s at 71st. Which would make more sense. But if they really did need 18 blocks, I hope they’re okay.

By the time Runaway Poppy on the corner of Amsterdam and 82nd informed me on a sign that it was almost soup season but they don’t actually sell soup, I knew I knew too much to really know anything anymore.

If only all things worked as well as the city’s notification system. New York is extraordinarily good at delivering information about what’s going on at all times. No consent, no request, no opting out. And even the most determined Upper West Side minds will probably struggle not to spend at least a little energy processing the stream of input. Like trying to figure out the composition of the stench around the now-closed Barzini’s at 91st and Broadway. It’s either something dying or something coming alive, and I wouldn’t wish either on anyone’s nose.

Where can we take a break? Our homes are rarely a refuge, the outside world keeps finding a way in. I knew my neighbor was on vacation because, for two weeks, their smoke didn’t show up in my apartment every day at the usual hours: 9 to 10 p.m., and then again before midnight. There must be a place somewhere where stimuli are so few that we get a chance to digest some of what just happened.

I turned onto 71st Street because a sign at the corner of West End Avenue promised a Dead End. But what I found was a tiny speck of sidewalk beyond which the street continued toward Riverside Boulevard and all its traffic. And I wondered: Is a dead end still a dead end if it’s not dead for everyone? I guess I’m missing a driver’s perspective. Anyway, my mind felt very alive.

I turned around and walked past a little nook that seemed so quiet and unassuming, I was sure the information void would be waiting for me inside. Septuagesimo Uno, on 71st between West End and Broadway, is often called New York City’s smallest park, even if it’s not. In this pocket, jammed between two buildings, I had the choice of staring at a green bush or a concrete wall. Nothing else to tell me, nothing else to ask of me. But then I saw a mouse, and my brain caught fire.

I guess there’s no way out. It never stops, and we’ll always know a little bit too much about everything … or so I thought.

Because I did eventually find the absence of information, and let me tell you, I didn’t like it. Down at the 72nd Street C train station, I sat alone for seemingly forever and would have given anything for the display to work and tell me how long I’d be stuck there with nothing but my need to know what was going on.

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