The Big Empty

On a frigid night last winter, I had dinner with a friend in the East Village. The Thai restaurant was utterly deserted, of course, save for us two. For the privilege of choking on an array of soul-searing hot curries, we had our temperatures recorded, our contact information taken down, our table blocked off by thick plexiglass; not one additional patron showed up the whole time we sat down. The neighborhood around the joint, bustling in the Before Times, was likewise mostly empty, with perhaps one couple or single diner, if that, eating alfresco at any given restaurant that was open; many more places were shuttered, some likely for good.

Afterward, I decided to walk up Second Avenue to my place in Midtown East—and what struck me above all was how darkened the whole urban vista appeared. My memory recalled these spaces generally swirling with light and humming with activity: energy, vitality, a “city of ass-kickers,” as one of my old bosses once described the Big Apple. Now: desolation. The lights were off; the activity had ground to a halt.

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