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Group Encounter on the High Line

We met at the southwest corner of 33rd Street and 11th Avenue. It's an empty corner in an odd part of town, unknown to most New Yorkers. There's little traffic here, whether car or pedestrian, although midtown Manhattan is only a half-mile east. I'd been the one to suggest this meeting place, and as I approached and saw Leigh waiting, I immediately regretted the choice. My concern was practical. We might be noticed here, six artsy types with daypacks. Any cop with any sense would guess what we were doing so close to the beginning of the High Line.

*

Walking the High Line had been Ross's idea. I had done it once before, with my friend Lisa. Ross read my account of that experience and suggested we get together a small group during his fall visit to New York. Ross invited our mutual friends Leigh and Wylie, and Leigh invited Peter. I invited Nina, who I'd recently met online and was casually dating. I'd hesitated before inviting her, having scheduled a date with another woman for later that same night. Back-to-back dates seemed tacky and unwise, but when I mentioned the High Line to Nina, she said she'd always wanted to walk it; also, I knew she might never get another chance, as Mayor Bloomberg had just approved a plan to convert the structure into a public promenade.

I was the only one in the group who had walked the High Line before, and so it was my job to lead us on and off. This wasn't a trivial responsibility. Lisa and I had struggled to find a way down, and I'd heard of others who'd failed to get on. There were also stories of people being arrested for trespassing.

The High Line begins from within a block-long, avenue-wide parking lot bounded on the east by 11th Avenue and on the south by 33rd Street. Lisa and I, following directions provided by a friend of hers, entered the lot from 33rd Street and walked north across it, passing through a separate lot reserved for trucks—big trucks, eighteen-wheelers. In retrospect it seemed risky for us to have walked through the truck lot, a place we obviously didn't belong, particularly since there was an another entrance, for cars, on 34th Street (Lisa and I noticed this as we passed), and since the High Line begins only short distance from this entrance. My plan this time was to enter from 34th Street, provided there was no one in the ticket booth located just past the gate. When Ross arrived, I left him to talk with Leigh while I checked on the booth. It was empty.

When I returned the entire group had now gathered, and I saw immediately that Peter was overdressed: he had on nice shoes and long, stylish slacks. Evidently my description of our journey (we would walk through waist-high grass and slide beneath two metal barriers) had not reached Peter. My concern deepened as I explained my plan for getting on. I said we would use the 34th Street entrance and approach in pairs to reduce the chance of being noticed. If anyone was sitting in the ticket booth, we would loop around the lot to the 33rd Street entrance. I began to describe the route across the truck lot when Peter asked what all the fuss was about. I had to tell him, because evidently no one else had, that walking the High Line was illegal; we could be arrested for trespassing. Peter was not pleased. He was also unhappy with my plan to walk in pairs, thinking it unnecessarily complicated. I acquiesced, telling myself that at least we wouldn't be separated this way. Either everyone would get on the High Line or no one would.

I sensed that my friends—Leigh, Ross, and Wylie—enjoyed watching me play group leader. Leigh in particular, who knows me well and takes pleasure in poking fun at my obsessiveness, seemed amused as I sketched a rough map of the parking lot to use as a visual aid. I didn't mind her smiles—there's something comforting in being known this way, and I preferred being thought comical to overbearing.

As we walked down 34th Street, I took the lead, being careful to maintain a casual pace. At the entrance, seeing no one in the booth, I made a sharp left and headed back in the direction we'd come, now on the lot side of the fence. The group followed single-file. I continued along a vague path, through wild grass and weeds, all the while noting the embankment to my right. Once the embankment was low enough to climb, I turned and scrambled up. At the top was the High Line.

I now regret not making certain things clearer. In particular, it would have helped if everyone understood that the High Line is nearly inaccessible except at the beginning. This means that once you're far enough from the beginning, the police can't reach you—nor, for the most part, even see you up there. For this reason it's best to move quickly through the first half-mile, along the 30th Street Rail Yards, when you're not only most visible to those on the ground but still close enough to be pursued. Having left these things out of my debriefing, I had to shoo the group along at the start without much explanation. This was unfortunate, but I told myself that if we could just reach the metal barrier at 29th Street, the "getting on" part would be done and I could relax and enjoy myself—until of course the "getting off" part began.

*

We had only walked a few hundred yards when I noticed a man standing on the roof of a building at the west end of the 30th Street Rail Yards. I spotted him a long way off and figured that he was just some guy enjoying the view. He was leaning against a railing at the building's west edge, gazing out at the Hudson. The roof on which he stood came very close to the High Line.

Nina and I were walking in front as we approached him. Addressing the entire group, he said something that added up to: "You're trespassing here. Go back." Or maybe he phrased it as a question: "What do you think you're doing here?" His jacket indicated that he was some kind of security officer. He may have also identified himself this way. I'm not really sure about these things because after pausing to listen to his exchange with Ross and Wylie, I continued ahead with Nina.

Ross claimed we were part of some official documentation project, and Wylie joined in with the lie. It was ludicrous. We were so blatantly who we were, and this man, while obviously an idiot, was not the type of idiot to fall for such a story. My sense instead was to keep walking and let him try to come after us.

I hoped the others would follow my lead—and soon they did. But all was not well. From the beginning I assumed that whatever happened, we could always get off the High Line the same way we got on. This was no longer true. If we tried to return to the parking lot, our rooftop friend (others said he was a Homeland Security officer) would have plenty of time to arrange for our arrests at the bottom of the embankment. This wouldn't have mattered except I already knew we couldn't get down the same way Lisa and I had—it was far too risky.

The only person I shared these thoughts with was Nina, and I didn't quite tell her everything.

*

When Lisa and I walked the High Line, I noted at the first barrier that this was the point at which my mother would turn back, unwilling to slide on her butt under a corrugated metal fence, a few feet of which have been bent back like the lid of a sardine can.

This time Nina went through first, and I followed, with Nina taking photographs of me wiggling under. (From the far side, a person coming through this opening looks like a baby emerging, feet-first and fully clothed, from its mother's metallic vagina.) Next came Ross and Wylie, and then the four of us waited for Leigh and Peter. After a few minutes I wondered out loud what was happening, and Wylie said that Peter had mentioned something about wanting to turn back.

"Wimp," I whispered to Nina, who smiled and whispered back that this was unfair to Peter, whose reasons may have been quite different from what I imagined.

Eventually Leigh appeared in the opening but Peter did not, for he was gone. Privately I put the odds of him being arrested at about fifty-fifty. It could have been worse, but Peter had a few things going for him—he was English, well-dressed, and hadn't joined in with Ross's bullshit about a documentation project. Perhaps the Homeland Security guy would cut him some slack. I certainly hoped so, although I confess I was also glad to see him go. Peter hadn't known what he was in for, and for this reason was a burden to the group. We were better off without him.

When Leigh reported Peter's reason for turning back, which as I recall was something along the lines of the High Line not being to his liking, Nina turned to me and whispered, "Wimp."

*

After the first barrier, I paid little attention to the walk and focused instead on finding a way down. Aside from Nina, no one knew what I was up to, which was how I preferred it. As our de facto host, I wanted my friends to enjoy the walk and not concern themselves with logistical difficulties.

In the ten-block stretch beginning at the first barrier, the High Line is bordered closely by apartment buildings. Could we climb onto a fire escape of one and use this to reach the ground? I studied each building carefully, but none had an accessible fire escape.

At about 18th Street, we found a school desk in the path. It was a combination desk and chair, the kind in which the arm of the desk curves around from the side. I imagined some lost child sitting there, hands folded, waiting for his or her nonexistent teacher to write something on a nonexistent blackboard.

Nina must have imagined something similar, for she asked me to sit in the chair so she could photograph me. Eventually everyone had their turn in the chair. When Leigh's turn came, she received a call on her cellphone from Peter, who reported that he'd been confronted by the police, had pleaded ignorance, was hassled at length, and was let go. This was good news but didn't necessarily mean it was safe to go back. We could be met by different officers or by the same officers in less forgiving moods. Peter himself advised us not to try it.

A short time later someone pointed out an enormous fashion ad, at least a hundred feet wide, plastered to the side of a brick building across the way. The ad featured five or six young, pouty models, all arranged, one supposed, to appear seductive. At Leigh's suggestion, the rest of us lounged in front of a railing with the ad in the background as she took photos of us striking exaggerated versions of the young models' poses.

This is the last light-hearted moment I remember until the end.

*

Soon after the faux fashion shoot, we passed the stairwell Lisa and I had used to get down. It was plastered with NO TRESPASSING signs. Lisa and I had walked to the end of High Line and, finding no alternative, returned to this stairwell. As we were to discover, it was surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. The fence had a gate, but the gate was locked. Seeing no other choice, Lisa and I climbed over the barbed wire, shimmied down a girder, and jumped onto the hood of a parked car. A security guard appeared just after Lisa, who was ahead of me, made it through the lot. He was incredulous. Didn't I know this lot belonged to the Drug Enforcement Agency? I told him I didn't, which was true. The guard instructed me to call after Lisa, who was now halfway down the block. I yelled a name I've since forgotten—not Lisa's—so Lisa would know not to stop. The security guard asked what the hell we were doing, and I had the idea to disarm him with honesty.

"We were walking on the High Line, and couldn't find another way down."

"Why didn't your friend stop?"

"She didn't want to get arrested."

I said I realized he was only doing his job and that I'd understand if he had to call the police. This seemed to soften him. In the end he agreed to let me go if I promised to never show my face there again.

Naturally I didn't want to show my face there again, nor did I think it wise for my four friends to do so. The barbed wire was dangerous, shimming down the girder was risky, and the security guard, stationed in the middle of the lot, would have plenty of time to spot us coming down.

I can't remember if I shared these thoughts as we approached the stairwell. All I know is that I must have revealed our predicament at about this time, because I recall being joined in the search for a way down by Ross, and by the others to a lesser degree.

Meanwhile, Wylie was worried about missing a late afternoon appointment with a therapy client. Several times I assured her that we were quite close to her office—once down, she'd be back in thirty minutes. However, sometime around the stairwell, she began talking about returning to the beginning, as Peter had. Fearing her arrest, I advised her against it. However, Wylie had a plan. If confronted by police, she would say she had a client waiting for her. It was the truth, and it was also typical Wylie: impractical and brave. I thought of something once said by the former world chess champion, Gary Kasparov: A bad plan is better than no plan. I didn't mention this to Wylie, largely because my own plan was looking worse than ever.

*

A few blocks from the end, Ross and I considered entering an abandoned building through a broken window. It didn't appear difficult: just a short drop into an empty room. We didn't know where the room led, but it seemed easy enough to climb back up—there was a radiator directly under the window.

The others objected. Leigh in particular was adamant. As she put it, she was not going to risk breaking her leg. She mentioned this several times—as a performer and yoga teacher, her body was her livelihood; if she broke her leg, she was fucked. It annoyed me how many times she repeated this, and I believe I made some half-joke about it while assuring her that she would not be forced to risk breaking her leg.

For the first time, I noticed the gender split. Neither Ross nor I were opposed to what we considered mild risk-taking, but the women—Leigh especially—felt differently. In the end Ross and I gave in, and the group continued on.

I don't recall what was said when we reached the end of the High Line. Did we even discuss what to do? I only know that the group turned back and that it was here I began to lag behind. Nina stayed behind as well, to keep me company while I explored a few more vague possibilities. Soon the news reached us that Wylie, concerned about missing her appointment, had gone ahead. We were now a group of four.

On the loading dock of the last building, I noticed a ladder propped against a wall. The ladder led to the roof above. Clearly it was here for a reason. Someone needed a way onto, or off of, that roof.

I assured Nina that I would return in a few minutes and climbed the ladder. On the roof I found a small open room which housed a large, rusted piece of machinery, evidently defunct. This room also contained a mattress and some soiled clothes. Whoever lived here had to have a reliable way down to the street.

Just outside the room, a thick sheet of corrugated metal had been placed at an angle to the wall. Its purpose was clear: another ladder. I used it to scramble onto a higher roof from which I spotted the building's fire escape. For a moment I thought I'd solved our problem: we would take the fire escape to the street. But I was wrong: the fire escape descended not to the street but to an enclosed courtyard strewn with junk.

I wondered if the fire escape bordered any abandoned apartments; if so, I could enter the building through an open window and look for a stairwell to the ground floor. I climbed out onto the fire escape. Two floors down, I peered through an open window into an empty apartment. Here was my chance, perhaps the last one I would have. I climbed in.

The first room led to an interior room with no windows of its own. I continued to a third room, also windowless, and then a fourth, where I could see nothing—total blackness.

My heart was pounding. Had I had walked into someone's temporary residence? Was the occupant lurking somewhere in the darkness, metal pipe in hand, waiting to smash me on the head?

In the dark the space seemed much bigger than I had imagined—perhaps three or four times bigger—and appeared to be laid out like a maze. I walked slowly, my hands before me, concerned about tripping or stumbling into something.

At last I emerged into an area with a bit of light. Was this once a hallway? I noticed an empty shaft where an elevator had been, and a doorless bathroom. There had to be stairs somewhere but where? I wondered if I had passed them in the dark.

By now I'd been gone over ten minutes. Nina would be worried, and the others would be angry at the delay. I had no choice but to turn back.

Then I realized something scary: it might not be so easy to find the first room again. Could I remember all the turns I'd made?

Fortunately this fear proved groundless: after just a short time, I was suddenly, unexpectedly, in the first room. In retrospect I believe I returned via a different, less circuitous route than I'd come, when I had wandered through three or four separate apartments, repeatingly crossing the hall that connected them.

I scrambled up the fire escape and returned to Nina, who was waiting near the first ladder. We continued on, and I continued looking.

At around 13th Street, the High Line borders the rooftop of a gas station. Could we climb down from that rooftop? I couldn't see how.

A block or two north, I thought we might shimmy down a particular girder to the street, but in the end this seemed too dangerous—even assuming that no one slipped and fell to the sidewalk, we'd be seen climbing down (the girder stood near a busy street corner) and would likely be arrested.

At 17th Street, Leigh reported that Wylie had called on her cellphone. Surprisingly, Wylie hadn't walked back to the beginning but had taken the stairwell. True to her word, she had talked her way out of trouble by telling the security guard that she was a psychologist who had a patient to see. I thought if nothing else, it was a line the man hadn't heard before.

Like Peter before her, Wylie advised us not to try it her way.

*

The four of us stood near the 17th Street stairwell, debating what to do. We considered three options: walk back to the beginning like Peter; take the stairwell like Wylie; or return to the abandoned building I'd explored, using the lights on our digital cameras to search for a way down. Leigh wanted to try the stairwell, but I considered this risky. Just because the security guard had let Wylie through didn't mean he would do the same for a group of four, particularly a group that included two men. I argued instead for the abandoned building, saying we would proceed only as far as seemed safe. Ross favored this idea, but Leigh did not. As the conversation grew testy, we decided to sit and talk about it.

Led by Leigh, our discussion felt like a group encounter session. Leigh seemed intent on exploring what she saw as my and Ross's attraction to adventure. She suggested that Ross and I wanted to try the abandoned building because of the inherent danger. I insisted otherwise, saying that I considered the abandoned building both our best chance down and our best chance of avoiding arrest.

I believe I viewed Leigh at that moment in much the same light as she had viewed me, back at 11th Avenue, when I'd used a hand-drawn map to illustrate my plan for getting on. That is, I saw Leigh's insistence on this psychological pow-wow as both maddening and endearing—a characteristically "Leigh" performance. Ross seemed to react similarly at first, but then became increasingly uncomfortable and frustrated as Leigh led us around in circles.

It was Nina who ended the impasse, albeit inadvertently. Previously uncommitted, she now said that she preferred to try the abandoned building. At this Leigh announced that she would try the stairwell on her own. This made Nina uncomfortable and it made me angry, although I don't know to what degree I showed it. As I saw it, Leigh had negotiated in bad faith. Whatever the wishes of the rest of the group, she had never intended to try the abandoned building. Her lengthy exploration of my and Ross's so-called risk-taking desires was really an attempt to get us to do what she wanted. Short of this, she intended to bail. I was pissed.

On a deeper level I felt confused by Leigh's apparent lack of courage. I had never thought of her as a fearful person, but in this case she seemed deeply, and irrationally, afraid. During our discussion I said that she wouldn't have to enter the building with the rest of us, that we would explore it without her and return to report our findings. Only if we found a way down would she need to come inside. But Leigh still refused. She didn't voice this, but I sensed her thoughts to be something along the lines of: "Abandoned building equals broken leg, which equals lost livelihood, which equals death. I go in there, I die."

I suggested we split off: Leigh could try the stairs while the rest of us returned to the abandoned room. Nina objected. The group should stick together, she said. If Leigh wasn't budging, the rest of us should.

It struck me that Nina was far more level-headed than the rest of us. Knowing no one but me, and me only slightly, she had more distance and could see things clearer. Besides, she was right: we should stick together. I agreed to try the stairs, as did Ross—I forget which one of us gave in first—and our group encounter was finally over.

*

I hung back as we descended the stairs, wanting the others to plead our case with the security guard.

Some of the stairs were rickety, and a few were gone altogether. From two flights up I watched as Leigh and Nina negotiated the tricky parts.

As the two women approached the bottom stair, a short man appeared on the other side of the fence. I didn't hear, or don't recall hearing, what my friends said to this man, but I do remember watching him repeatedly shaking his head.

Later I was told what had happened: the guard claimed he didn't have the key to the lock. The regular security guard had the key, and he or she was elsewhere. We had to turn back.

At the top of the stairs, one of us—me or Ross—said something about trying the abandoned building now. Leigh refused. With or without us, she was heading back to the beginning.

I don't think I hid my anger so well this time. Having tried it Leigh's way, it was time to try it my way. Leigh could leave if she wanted.

Is this how I put it? I don't remember, but whatever I said, it couldn't have been pleasant.

This time Nina made no effort to hold the group together. She and Ross agreed to join me, and we said our goodbyes to Leigh, who exchanged cellphone numbers with Nina so they could call each other with developments.

I don't remembering watching Leigh walk away, which means I probably didn't. Instead we turned our way and she turned hers, and that was that: Leigh was gone.

*

The walk back to the abandoned building was grim. I don't think we said much. Our final scene with Leigh had been angry and sad. When Peter left, I felt relieved. When Wylie left, I understood. But Leigh's parting was different. It was a defeat, a collective failure.

On top of this, we were still stuck on the High Line. I don't know what the others were thinking, but I figured the chances were against us finding a way down in the abandoned building. If so, we had a long walk back to the beginning of the High Line and a likely encounter with the police.

At around 14th Street, the High Line passes under a building that spans both sides of the tracks. Here the path is strewn with debris, mostly large sheets of metal, which makes walking difficult. I stayed to the east, near the loading dock, while Ross and Nina walked on the west, a short distance ahead.

A large metal door on the loading dock swung open, and two men strode through. They stood there a moment, taking us in. One was dressed in a long elegant coat. The other, evidently his subordinate, wore a work shirt and had a deep, wrinkled tan.

Since I stood closest to them, I spoke first, greeting them in a friendly voice.

"It's embarrassing," I said, "but we're having trouble finding a way down from the High Line. Do you mind if we go through your building?"

The man in the coat hesitated a moment before agreeing. By this time I'd climbed onto the loading dock, where I was soon joined by Ross and Nina. We were profuse in our gratitude. I think it was Nina who called the man in the coat our angel, and indeed his coat made him resemble one of the angels in Wim Wender's film Wings of Desire.

One of us—Ross, I believe—explained that Leigh had headed back to the beginning. Was there enough time for us to call her and have her join us here? The man in the coat, who clearly enjoyed playing hero, said he would leave the door open while he and his colleague headed upstairs.

A call was made to Leigh, who agreed to hurry back. Meanwhile, the man in the coat explained that he'd recently purchased the building to use for some unidentified business venture. Evidently he had come this day to survey his new property and had opened the loading dock door at precisely the right moment to save us.

*

When we reached the ground, we found ourselves in the West Village, on Gansevoort Street. I turned to face the building we had come through. It had once been a meat packing plant.

The others suggested a drink to celebrate our good fortune, but I was hesitant. I was due at my second date in just ninety minutes. If I hurried, I might have time to take a quick shower. A shower would be good. Still, it seemed wrong to rush off after all we'd been through, so I agreed to the drink, saying I could stay for only a short time because I had to met a friend for dinner.

It was awkward. I wondered if Nina suspected what I was up to (later I would discover she had), and I felt stupid to have put myself in this situation.

The moment Nina went to the restroom, Ross and Leigh descended on me, saying how much they both liked her.

What was not to like? Nina had shone.

I don't remember what we talked about when Nina returned. Well, it was definitely the High Line, but I don't remember what anyone said. We were happy. Everything had worked out. Back at the loading dock, while we waited for Leigh to join us, either Ross or Nina pointed out that the plot had been resolved by deus ex machina, the convention used in ancient Greek theater of lowering a god onstage to untangle an otherwise hopeless situation. It was the cheapest ending possible, one that reflected poorly on us as a group, but no one was complaining.