Literary
Salma Elmehdawi Submissions: litsection.observer@gmail.com October 18, 2012 THE OBSERVER
An Island in Rehab By WINDY CHENG Contributing Writer
The anorexic between obese blobs, Roosevelt Island is a two-mile strip of green shouldered by Manhattan and Queens. She is the size-0 model at the bar. Only three acceptable ways by which to approach her: the F train, the bridge, or the Roosevelt Island tramway. If you want to make a good first impression, here’s a bit of advice: take the aerial tramway. You’ll be floating over in a skybox surrounded by the 26th floor windows of Manhattan’s Upper East Side; she’s not one to take the initiative otherwise. It’s a short four-minute wait to enter the island, and the best part is that the conductor doesn’t ID. The willow trees outlining Roosevelt Island sway like the frilly dress of a salsa dancer. The peripheral path of lovers makes contact along the island’s curves. Single men linger on her edges for moments too long, resting on the benches facing the East River. A drunken vision takes hold as cars blur past on the Queensboro Bridge, and the lights in apartment buildings shimmer on and off like the flash of the paparazzi. She’ll tell you how she changed her married name on five occasions: Hog, Manning, Blackwell, Welfare, and for the time being, Roosevelt. When she belonged to the Canarsie Indians, she was known as Hog’s Island and still kept the name even when a Dutch governor seduced her with a dowry. After the English defeated the Dutch she became Manning’s, and was passed down to the Englishman’s son-in-law, Blackwell, in Oedipal exchange. After winning the highest bid issued to Blackwell, the city of New York fashioned the island with criminals and crazies with the unveiling of a penitentiary and insane asylum. Roosevelt Island won’t admit to it but she is undergoing rehabilitation. She’s one of those celebrities you read about in the tabloids: popular with the paparazzi and men. She’s had a promiscuous sex life, but her 99-year contract with the Urban Development Corporation promises to improve her image – all the better for her fans. Main Street, her only means of commerce, is upheld by a scaffolding of metal crutches, its edges wrapped in a sheer cast. Store windows along the strip are locked up and deserted for longer than just the night. Gristede’s, Starbucks, and Duane Reade have to compete with the local “Transcontinental Gas Pipe Line” and “Floor Scraping Inc.” further down Main Street. Is it any wonder that the island has a population of just 12,000? Close enough to Manhattan to be her sister with a mild case of suburbia, Roosevelt Island is an esplanade of trees; you’d think twice before raising a cigarette to your lips. More bicycles crowd the metal racks than cars parked on the street. Solar panels carpet the stepped roofs of the island’s luxury condominiums. A plan to open a Cornell University campus is in the works. Rehab is sobering her adulterous repertoire. But given her allure, the City of New York succumbed to the island’s panache at today’s cost of a little over half a million. A steal.