Personal Surveys

Providence

The Photo Comp

Little Essex Street

Personal Calibration

52 Sundays

The Crosses of the
Northern Neck

Little Essex Street

Essex Street may be the oldest street in New Jersey. It defines the southern border of the Paulus Hook section of Jersey City. Beyond it lays the remnant of the Morris Canal and the mouth of the Hudson. It used to be only three blocks long, tucked between the Colgate factory and the Onyx chemical plant. There was a railroad track running down the street and a little train would pull tanks of tallow, and God knows what else, up and down the street. Looking out your window it would seem to be snowing, only it was July and it was Irish Spring suds coming down. There was a bar on every corner. These were swing shift bars – the factory ran 24 hours and the bars would be packed at eight in the morning. There was one on the corner of Essex and Greene. As I walked to Exchange Place to take the train under the river, the patrons would emerge from the bar and pause to gaze east at the view before trudging home. Both the bar and the view are long gone.

About six months after 9/11, I was sorting some loose change and I came across a penny that looked like someone had taken a blowtorch to it. The image of Lincoln was barely discernible, as if the coin had been dipped in acid. Gouges had been taken out of it, as if gnawed on by a super rat. It looked like it had been in a fire, or an explosion, or both and it was covered with a white chalky substance. My point is that I think about the unfortunate events of September 11, 2001 every day. It comes upon me without warning, but then I think about little Essex Street, a surreal and magical place, and I don't feel so  bad.

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