So that's life in the Big City!
/THE BOSTON HERALD
BEVERLY BECKHAM
The news is full of mayhem - all over the country, all over the world. That's what news is. Man bludgeons man. Man hurts and hates and avenges and rebukes and betrays and alienates.
We drive from Boston to Manhattan and as the local radio station fades and the New York one becomes strong, only the names of the victims change. The stories are the same: Child shot; man stabbed; woman raped; teens killed; girl attacked by gang; terrorists vow revenge.
Bad news is like the moon at night. You can't get away from it. It follows us all.
I lock the doors as we cross the Triboro Bridge. Make sure you keep your doors locked when you're in New York, people told us. When you unpack your car, don't leave it unattended, not even for a minute. When you walk along the street, hold on to your pocketbook, stride purposefully. Whatever you do, don't look like tourists.
So much advice began with "don't." Don't forget to double bolt your apartment door. Don't open it unless you know who's on the other side. Don't walk alone at night. Don't smile at strangers. Don't wear expensive jewelry. Don't look vulnerable. Don't take the subway, take the bus. Don't hang around Times Square once the theaters are out.
My 16-year-old and I will be living in New York for the next six weeks. We've sublet an apartment. She's going to school; I'll write. It will be a great adventure.
Only the "don'ts" follow us like bad news.
My husband is behind the wheel as we drive along FDR Drive through Manhattan. The road is old and ugly, twisting, full of pot holes, not unlike the Central Artery. There's graffiti too, on the buildings and fences that border it and on the trucks that rattle over it.
Our car rounds a bend. There on the other side of the road is a car, stopped, a man and woman beside it, screaming and frantically waving their arms. All around them, other cars have stopped, too, not in orderly lines but like bumper cars at Nantasket. Some of the drivers are in their cars. But most have abandoned them and are running toward something.
We drive slowly now, because on our side of the road the same thing is happening. Drivers are stopping, listening to whatever the runners are screaming, then giving chase to something still out of our sight.
What could it be? Has someone been robbed? Shot? Has there been an explosion? Has Saddam retaliated?
We round another curve. This time people are standing beside their cars and pointing.
On the sidewalk by the road is a dog, a plucked and pampered lap dog, running as fast as it can, its leash flying like a kite string behind it.
The dog must have jumped from the car of the man and woman who were waving, and bolted across the highway. The dog is way ahead of the people chasing it. When the sidewalk ends, the dog will surely run into the street and be killed.
A battered green car charges past us on the right and skids to a stop. A man with a mustache leaps out, and runs up the road toward the dog. He traps it in his arms and saves its life.
The drama is past. The dog is safe, returned to its owners. People return to their cars and get on with their lives.
The pity is that only those who witnessed this will ever know that dozens of New Yorkers, 212ers who supposedly don't give a damn about anyone but themselves, literally stopped in their tracks and risked not just their cars but their lives, chasing across a highway to save a dog from certain death.
Meanwhile, on the radio some talk show host rails about indifference in the city.
