The
bell made the sort of sound that’s not too loud when you’re near but
you can hear a mile away. It rang dully and not quite evenly, almost
like someone was working it by hand.
A
thin boy sat on the concrete riser that ran along the sidewalk,
cradling a snare drum and tapping his foot. I wondered whether he was
trying to keep time with the bell. It was hard to tell. An older girl
stood nearby, wheeling a scooter back and forth in short jabs.
Now
a line of cars had formed, and bicycles too. More pedestrians gathered
on either side of the street. Some lifted their phones to take pictures.
Past the double barricades and the no-man’s land there was a mirror
world: cars, bikes and people waiting to cross the other way.
The
bridge rose slowly in one flat segment, along tracks in four columns.
All the time the bell kept ringing. It was still hot but the sun was
sinking low.
A
horn sounded and a barge passed through. All you could see was the top
of a massive gravel pile. Finally the tugboat came and went. You gotta
be patient in that line of work.
The
din was over and the bridge restored. I peered down at the poisoned
Gowanus as I crossed, and on the other side I glanced into a strange,
semi-sheltered space. It was unclear whether it was part of the bridge’s
structure or if it belonged to the adjacent construction site, a
patchy-grass lot with trailers and Port-o-lets. Inside there were
hundreds upon hundreds of mannequins, some standing, some lying in
stacks, and rows and rows of bathtubs with feet.