The Pat Dolan Trail: Where Butterflies Go to Die
You see…read morethis sign, right? "Pat Dolan Trail." Sounds nice, sounds like a place where families go on a Sunday to forget they're poor. It's even got a website on it, in brass, like the city really cares. Brass and chain-link fences. That's New York for you. Wrapping a little nature in wire and giving it a dead person's name. I looked at the sign, felt the sun on my neck, and I knew this wasn't going to lead to a quiet brook and a bottle of gin.
I kept walking, and there's another sign. This one tries harder. It's got a little story about a World's Fair and freshwater wetlands and, would you look at that, monarch butterflies. They painted them right on the sign, like they could keep them there. And some kid named Paul scrawled his name on it, too, right next to "Pam," and some other garbage about butterflies. Good for Paul. He's immortal now. A monument to some sweaty afternoon, scratched onto a sign that tells you to watch your step because it might get wet. As if life doesn't always manage to get wet and muddy when you least expect it. "We strongly recommend hiking boots," the sign says. Yeah. Or a strong stomach and a disregard for where you end up.
Then you hit the bridge. This ain't no golden gate. It's a cage. A tunnel of shadow and wire, arching over nothing you want to see. The shadows on the concrete look like the ghosts of all the good intentions that died trying to build this place. A brown dog is standing there, he's my dog Philip and he's in the middle of it all, not moving, just waiting. A good dog. He knows.
There's a red metal wall blocking his view, or maybe my view. Doesn't matter. It's a red wall in a cage, and the sun is trying like hell to burn through the mesh, and it feels like the kind of place where a man could stand and write bad poetry for an hour until his last beer runs warm.
And finally, you get there. You walk through the cage, past the butterfly sign and Paul's legacy, and you get to the end. The real destination.
A view of the subway trains, all lined up like silver coffins waiting for the morning rush. They're behind a massive fence, of course. Everything is. Barbed wire, concrete, a bright orange plastic barrier looking like a lonely, plastic tongue stuck out at the world. The sun is hot, reflecting off the metal, making you squint at a city that doesn't care that you're looking. It's a yard for the machines that move people to jobs they hate. It's beautiful, in a godforsaken kind of way. It's honest. No monarchs, just metal and dust and the long, slow rumble of everything breaking down.
It's a good trail. If you like cages, broken dreams, and the smell of hot cities. It will show you the truth, if you can stand it. Most people can't. They want the butterfly sign to be real. This trail, the Pat Dolan Trail, it knows they're lying. I had another beer, my dog at my side, lifebis good, but the sun kept burning.
