Afterworld NYC

According to a sign on Amazonian Afterlife in the American Museum of Natural History, “At death, Amazonian Indians believe, the soul leaves the body and travels to the afterworld, far away on earth or in the sky. They do not believe in a heaven or a hell. All souls go to the same afterworld or, if there are several, which souls go where depends on how people died rather than on how they lived. For example, a violent death may send a soul to a different afterworld than a death from natural causes.”

New York City is the afterworld of death by choking. The Union Square Market is a pale imitation of markets in poetry. There are few aromas, and when there are, they come in wafts of wet trash, rather than clouds of grilled meat or fresh flowers—peonies look more fragrant and purple than they smell. Everything is dense. Apples the size of a baby’s head, crumb cakes like bricks of butter and shortening with crisp apple toppings. Pies that weigh as much as a woman, and woman selling them who weigh even more. Blocks of cheese sweating in the early-morning dew while the Camembert is left to sleep in dark  boxes lined with wax paper.

New York City is the afterworld of death in soft chairs

A woman hogging the larger table beside us at the bookstore has her iPad out, switches between playing games and reading a book on her Kindle app. In her flowered dress, pink beads, and black bonnet, she’s dressed for a 1950s garden party. Every time we talk, she gives us the stink eye, and I can’t figure out why until I see the pink beads. It must be hard living in the wrong decade, pretending SoHo is a Parisian Plaza. Her flats have black bows on them, and she orders a grilled cheese with Vermont white cheddar and Dijon mustard. She asks for “no mustard,” but the sandwiches are premade, so she settles for a straw in her can of Blue Ribbon.