Monday, 17 May 2004 | Sunbather

In my neighborhood, the bank of the East River is guarded by fences and industries and No Trespassing signs. There's one street, however, that dead ends directly at the river itself, the only barrier being the large scattered rocks that get licked by waves whenever a barge hums past. There's an old round brick chimney that looks like it's missing its building, and directly across the water, is an impressive EKG of metal, the Manhattan skyline.

This "beach" isn't made of sand, but instead, pebbles and grass and some inevitable bits of trash, and, despite the factories on either side of it, people hang out there just as if it were a traditional sort of paradise. They sit on the rocks and spread blankets on the ground, girlfriends rest their heads on boyfriends' shoulders, a kid or two charges through, musicians pump good and bad noise into the air, models are photographed (yes, really), and sunbathers bake in their sleep.

One sunbather caught my eye, in part, because he was black, and in part, because he lay on his stomach and rolled up his shorts in such a way that he'd created a thong. I was less impressed by the act itself than I was by the confidence he'd exposed with his flesh.

Shortly after I'd parked my bike and had found a spot to sit, I watched a girl stand at his feet and take his picture, something I'd admittedly considered but decided against. Apparently she'd used a Polaroid camera, because a few minutes later, she sneaked over and placed a copy of the picture on top of his flip-flops for him to discover when he woke up. I was tempted to stay until that happened, but I didn't outlast him.