That December my little brother Michael visited New York for a weekend. I'd been excited to show him around, but we didn't get along too well. He hated my friends, as well as the Broadway play and downtown restaurants I took him to. At the time he was just a teenager, so I accompanied him on the cab ride to La Guardia.
I boarded a Carey bus back to the city, which only cost $4. The closest it would take me was Wall Street. I'd have just enough money left for a 75-cent subway token to get home.
I was the only rider on the bus. Sitting in the back, I felt lonely and tried not to cry as we headed out of the terminal and onto the highway. Suddenly the driver, a uniformed black man who looked in his 30's, asked if I was O.K. Sniffling, I told him about the difficult weekend with my brother. He told me his name was Troy, and that his brother didn't like him either. He asked if I minded if he smoked. I said, "Of course not, I'm a smoker too." Troy opened his window and lit up. It smelled funny; it wasn't a cigarette. It was a thick joint.
This was why I loved New York -- you never knew what was going to happen next! In my stoned 20-year-old brain, I decided that God was rewarding me for being so nice to my brother. Still, I never took the Carey bus again and always wondered about Troy when I'd read about bus accidents.
New York was emblematic of the brash new nation that America was becoming in the 19th century; its association with the forces of change and industry made it a target during the American Civil War. A desperate Confederate plot to destroy the city by setting fire to 10 hotels was only foiled by the quick action of the hotel employees, and by New York's heroic volunteer firemen who rapidly put out the flames.
The Confederates wanted to destroy New York because it was a symbol of all that they loathed about the North. Bristling and boastful with success, the city encouraged the dynamic creation of riches as well as their ostentatious display.