Art, Peter Kok

on the train with my dad. I loved going to that incredible city each day. I’d get off the train, walk through the cavernous Grand Central Station and exit onto Vanderbilt Avenue at 42nd Street. At Fifth Avenue, I came face to face with the majestic golden lions guarding the New York City public library. I regret that I never made time to go inside but I’d get on the Fifth Avenue bus and travel downtown to Greenwich Village and a New York University classroom. I was able to change the D in chemistry on my transcript, to a B plus. This was so much more acceptable! And, in the process, I met Florence, a dark, ebony black woman from Ghana whose laugh I can almost hear these many years later. There is an energy in New York City; one feels invigorated, one breathes a little deeper and exhales a bit longer and if you stop and think about it, you feel something that’s endemic to that city. It’s akin to an excitement that permeates your being. It’s hard to explain to someone who’s never been there but it’s almost as though the city itself pumps out something. I believe it’s hard to be depressed in New York City. That summer I enjoyed spending time with my dad, as well. It was a time when his office consulted with a much larger and more wellknown architect, on the Seagram Building in New York City. I recall one summer day when we went down to the huge hole being excavated in the ground and watched, after donning yellow hard hats, as the workmen poured the concrete foundations. And another time, after the building was finished, going to lunch at the Four Seasons restaurant in the lobby of this beautiful glass and bronze building. It was one of my most enjoyable and impressive restaurant experiences ever. Another time I recall walking from Dad’s office at 2 Park Avenue over to Grand Central Station. The ground sloped downward a bit and we were walking with Irene, a woman who worked in Dad’s office. It was five o’clock in the afternoon and we were walking at a pretty good clip, something that happens in New York City. Anyway, I recall Irene wearing a sleeveless, eggplant purple blouse and a full skirt with a cinched waist. I felt turned off around this woman who seemed too flirty with my father and I so wanted to tell her to shave the thick tufts of dark hair under both her arms, as well as on her legs. How come she was with Dad and why wasn’t her husband, who also worked in Dad’s office, with her? I found out later she and my father were having an affair. And how did I find this out? Well, my father told me.

Peter Kok

Volume 1, Issue 2 | Winter/Spring 2018 | THE BEACON 9