Federal Case

Every day after lunch, I get up from my desk, leave my office, and walk among my people.

Well, they’re not exactly my people.

They’re the tourists who come to the Wall Street in droves to visit Federal Hall, the stock exchange, the 9/11 Memorial, and so many other fantastic sights that the financial district has to offer.

But seeing as I’m a born-and-bred New Yorker who has worked in and around this area for a dozen years, I feel a bit of a connection with these folks who have traveled to my hometown from all corners of the globe.

They come alone, or with their spouses and families, and often in groups led by mic’d-up tour guides who stand before the building where American democracy was born and speak with great authority—apparently—in languages I don’t begin to understand.

On Thursday there was actually two tour groups standing side-by-side
before the towering statue of George Washington.

I don’t know what they’re saying, but I get a real charge out of the energy coming off these people.

I get a similar feeling when I’m in an airport and I’m surrounded by all these people, all these stories, streaming through one location on their way to somewhere else.

Times Square may be the Crossroads of the World, but Wall Street gets an awful lot of global foot traffic.

It’s exciting to see people experience this area, which I see every day, for the first time in their lives.

"....Summoned By My Country..."

The financial district is the oldest part of the city with these narrow streets, so you get to see the expression on people’s faces and hear the excitement in their voices.

I have to be careful not to step into somebody’s vacation photo, which ain’t easy in such cramped conditions where people are constantly clicking off selfies in front of the stock exchange or posing before the Washington statue.

There are food carts—like the Jamrock Jerk cart that always has a huge line and staff of at least eight (!) people. I’ve yet to eat their, by the way, but the smoke coming off the grill smells delicious.

There’s the souvenir guy who peddles all sorts of lowbrow New York memorabilia and who tends to grumble “buy something” at meandering tourists.

There are also the occasional knuckleheads who try to sell you something, but I’m pretty good with my “I’m a New Yorker, pal” sneer, which usually sends them packing.

One day I tried to speak with a young man holding a “Who is Q?” sign who was peddling some pathetic right-wing conspiracy theory about child molestation rings operating in a Washington D.C. pizzeria, but I gave up.

My lunch break is not long enough to waste time debating with a fanatic. I can only imagine what George Washington would have thought about such idiocy, but I’m sure he would have defended this misguided fool’s right to speak.

I usually wrap up my visit by walking down Wall Street, turning right on to William Street and going one block over to Pine Street to visit Our Lady of Victory Church, where my mother used to worship back in the Forties when she worked at the Wall Street Journal.

My father worked at a bank in this area and my parents met at a Child’s Restaurant which I believe was located on Cortland Street. I have some very deep roots in this area indeed.

I’m grateful to these tourists who remind me every day how important Wall Street is to me as an American and a New Yorker.

This is the Labor Day Weekend, the end of summer, and I suspect I’ll see fewer tourists as the temperatures get lower.

But then visitors come to New York all year around and as long as I’m working down there I’ll be around to welcome my people.