These tourists wanted, came for, and found another New York, a model city that existed within and yet separate from the one locals inhabited. These visitors came to pay full price at flagship department stores. They stopped by to wander MoMA at midday and scrunch their foreheads disapprovingly at the CoBrA retrospective. They seemed to enjoy waiting in long lines to eat mille-feuilles served by feathery exchange-student waitstaff. They shelled out big for tickets to musicals like Laika and Bats in the Belfry. They came to collect little anecdotes of Staten Island ferry rides and colorful characters. To become a tourist was to be rendered temporarily innocent.

The scurrying locals inhabited another layer. These two populations flowed along side by side, yet maintained a separation, like a rainbow of oil in a puddle.

To belong was taxing. It involved so much will and work. Alfonzo and everyone he knew was depleted. The locals were tired. They felt the constant need to show who they were or wanted to be with little symbols of significant affiliation or aspiration. Tote bags announced jobs at banks or time spent at an Ivy. A miniature flag stitched to a young goat’s backpack told the world he was Dominican. According to their shirts, the pigeons at the breakfast cart were all union members from 32BJ SEIU. A pair of Siamese cats who emerged from an entryway touched noses before parting ways; if Alfonzo had to guess, he’d say they were executives. He based this on their purses. The city was an exhausting text that demanded endless reading.

Alfonzo saw in his mind’s eye a poster, bought from a street vendor, of the Brooklyn Bridge. It hung in a black-and-white-tiled kitchen. He thought of the creature who’d taken the image. He thought of the ink suppliers, the printshop worker, and the brotherhood of printer-repair animals who kept the machines working. He pictured the paper dust of all those images being made swirling into a storm that enveloped the whole city. He coughed.

The City Hall tour guide tromped down the steps to lead the lost souls inside for the 9:00 a.m. tour. It was the cue Alfonzo wanted to ignore. He scanned the newspaper headlines to wring out a last moment of freedom.

MAYOR SHERGAR LOOSENS REGULATIONS FOR WATERFRONT DEVELOPMENT

PANEL URGES ACTION TO PROTECT FRAGILE ICE SHELVES; INDUSTRY OBJECTS

ABANDON BREEZY AFTER HURRICANE SPARKY? WATER-EVER, SAY LOCALS