For years, from the mid-90s to the late ’00s, M and I would
go for morning skates, back when there was an outdoor facility, called Kate Wollman Rink.
Now, it’s a swishy two-rink affair, one under a skylight
cover, the other in the open air.
The second ice surface will, from time to time, be commandeered for product photo and video shoots.
I’ve seen Martha Stewart signs, but typically there is nothing outward that would identify the client.
On this day (Dec. 6), I noticed the shoot but kept running
along the path near the ice, a route I like because as an avid skater I admire the skate cuts in the surface of the ice, and perchance, be drawn back into
memories of mornings past.
Just as I get to the middle of the outdoor rink wall, a
woman starts cursing like a sailor, slashing my reverie to ribbons. F-words,
S-words, a cascade of muck, pierces the morning cold, the “talent” in the
shooting pen is a girl in expensive-looking winter wear, eight years old max,
looking wanly on.
When I return on the same path, two members of the shoot
crew block my way as I attempt to return along the public route I take every other
day for months of the year. Like a good doobie, I retreat and look for a second best way to run home.
Turned away – yet another example of how in our profit-obsessed
culture, “your options have changed.”
Next: Running for Your Life: Concrete Utopia
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