blocked many non-work-related sites, but not even the most demanding of partners would think to block the website of a man who drew the subway in immaculate detail, every inch of station correct, every tile of mosaic in place. Instead of paying attention on a conference call, Jeremy found an article about brakemen who hid old train cars in unused tunnels so they wouldn’t be scrapped. He found a support group for so-called foamers who rode in the front cars of the subway, their faces pressed to the window for the best view of the tracks.
He read the blogs of urban explorers in Portland and Boston and New York who traveled through underground drainpipes and subway tracks in search of infrastructural treasures. On one blog he came across, an underground explorer who called himself Magellan claimed that he and his band of explorers donned black trench coats and sunglasses to navigate abandoned New York City subway stations and scale the walls of condemned buildings, planting black flags once they’d reached their destinations.
At first this account sounded little different from the other blogs, but he startled at the bio Magellan had posted. When he wasn’t leading his clandestine group on surreptitious missions to the hidden parts of the city, he worked a mindless job in a New York City skyscraper, which had inspired him to begin his explorations. On the blog, Magellan recounted the story of the structural defect in his office building which, upon being discovered in the 1970s, required workers to stabilize the skyscraper, secretly installing metal rods in each of the offices and adding a massive weight to the roof. Magellan claimed to have bought a hardhat at a costume shop and sneaked onto the rooftop to see the contraption on which their lives depended.
Recognizing the building as his own—everyone who worked in the Citicorp building knew this disturbing fact but tried to forget it—Jeremy e-mailed Magellan and skeptically asked how he’d made it past the security offices housed on the top floor. Magellan was probably a fifteen-year-old in Idaho with Internet access and an overactive imagination, but even so, Jeremy kept reading his blog, hoping it was true. He became newly curious about his coworkers; each person he passed in the hall harbored a similar longing to be somewhere else.
“Do you know when he’s going to be back?” Jeremy asked Richard’s secretary when he finally finished drafting the first of numerous documents that were so urgently needed.
“He used to tell me everywhere he was going,” the secretary said. “Now I have no idea what he’s up to. Every afternoon, he puts that vest on and runs out of here as though his life depended on it.”
In his mind Richard was also donning a trench coat, holding out the black flag. But it was impossible to believe—Richard was probably at the dentist, getting a root canal. Even so, Jeremy felt newly free. He told his own secretary he had a meeting and he left the office. Richard liked to tell stories of the irresponsible associates he’d encountered in the course of his career: the one who went on vacation in the middle of a major deal and never once checked his voice mail, the one who left a closing unfinished because her cat was sick. If Jeremy was caught, future associates would hear about the lawyer who had an urgent need to learn about an abandoned subway station. They would hear about someone who had seen a fleeting image from a train window and was consumed with a desire to stand inside that sealed space.
Jeremy escaped into a day that was warm and bright. Except for a few blocks at either end of his commute, it was rare for him to be outside. Squinting from the excess of visual stimulation, he jumped at the sight of a police car, as if an unsanctioned afternoon off was an actual crime. In front of the New York Public Library, he pulled out the
Michelin Guide to New York City
that Nina had bought him long ago, which they were still waiting to
He read the blogs of urban explorers in Portland and Boston and New York who traveled through underground drainpipes and subway tracks in search of infrastructural treasures. On one blog he came across, an underground explorer who called himself Magellan claimed that he and his band of explorers donned black trench coats and sunglasses to navigate abandoned New York City subway stations and scale the walls of condemned buildings, planting black flags once they’d reached their destinations.
At first this account sounded little different from the other blogs, but he startled at the bio Magellan had posted. When he wasn’t leading his clandestine group on surreptitious missions to the hidden parts of the city, he worked a mindless job in a New York City skyscraper, which had inspired him to begin his explorations. On the blog, Magellan recounted the story of the structural defect in his office building which, upon being discovered in the 1970s, required workers to stabilize the skyscraper, secretly installing metal rods in each of the offices and adding a massive weight to the roof. Magellan claimed to have bought a hardhat at a costume shop and sneaked onto the rooftop to see the contraption on which their lives depended.
Recognizing the building as his own—everyone who worked in the Citicorp building knew this disturbing fact but tried to forget it—Jeremy e-mailed Magellan and skeptically asked how he’d made it past the security offices housed on the top floor. Magellan was probably a fifteen-year-old in Idaho with Internet access and an overactive imagination, but even so, Jeremy kept reading his blog, hoping it was true. He became newly curious about his coworkers; each person he passed in the hall harbored a similar longing to be somewhere else.
“Do you know when he’s going to be back?” Jeremy asked Richard’s secretary when he finally finished drafting the first of numerous documents that were so urgently needed.
“He used to tell me everywhere he was going,” the secretary said. “Now I have no idea what he’s up to. Every afternoon, he puts that vest on and runs out of here as though his life depended on it.”
In his mind Richard was also donning a trench coat, holding out the black flag. But it was impossible to believe—Richard was probably at the dentist, getting a root canal. Even so, Jeremy felt newly free. He told his own secretary he had a meeting and he left the office. Richard liked to tell stories of the irresponsible associates he’d encountered in the course of his career: the one who went on vacation in the middle of a major deal and never once checked his voice mail, the one who left a closing unfinished because her cat was sick. If Jeremy was caught, future associates would hear about the lawyer who had an urgent need to learn about an abandoned subway station. They would hear about someone who had seen a fleeting image from a train window and was consumed with a desire to stand inside that sealed space.
Jeremy escaped into a day that was warm and bright. Except for a few blocks at either end of his commute, it was rare for him to be outside. Squinting from the excess of visual stimulation, he jumped at the sight of a police car, as if an unsanctioned afternoon off was an actual crime. In front of the New York Public Library, he pulled out the
Michelin Guide to New York City
that Nina had bought him long ago, which they were still waiting to
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