… the year is 2005, and I’m looking down at the sidewalk, which is so uneven the homeless can’t even drive their shopping carts on it, when I think “Look up, expand your chest, take in the world!” The sort of thing I say to myself when I feel I am not living fully.
… and on my right is this wide-awake .. fox? dog? marmot? … but the speed of being a New York Walker has already carried me past the sight that might expansion my consciousness to Yeatsian proportions. I whip out my camera and snap this pic from behind.
Should I turn around and snap the front too? But someone is bearing down behind me, and they might bump into me, or pick my pocket. What the hell. I execute a Canal Street U-turn, even though the week before two black police-women gave me a $120 ticket for doing the same in a car ( the one said to the other, “He’s from Cleveland, isn’t that a double fine?”).
Do you know where this is going?
No, you don’t. Like me, you think this is faux fox, taxidermy, a stuffed renard. But then it moved.
But I don’t have a pic of that. There are no pictures of moving foxes, if you think about it.
When you see a fox, I mean, it is always on the periphery of your vision. I saw one on Donuainsul outside Vienna, a man-made island in the middle of the rushing, cold Danube. No way that fox could get out there except on the U-bahn. The last fox I saw, on my way home from the Kaiser Hospital at 3 a.m., was crossing a four-lane road from the 18th tee of a golf course over into a Jack-in-the-Box.
BUT YOU NEVER SEE THE FOX IN THE BOX.