It was a crazy idea, but we did it anyway. Our first steps outside should have convinced us of the absurdity of riding the elevated train that ran above 3^rd Avenue from lower Manhattan up to the Bronx, during a hurricane. We were completely soaked before we reached the sidewalk on 7th Street, just across from McSorley’s. The wind blew everywhere, turning us, spinning us, pushing us backwards as we moved up to 3^rd Avenue. The wind tore a sign from off a dry-cleaning store and set it bouncing along the street; a garbage can cover hit my brother in the leg, but we kept going as raindrops feeling like pebbles struck us in the face. We tried to catch our breath as we reached the entrance at East 9th Street, the sound of the wind nearly drowned out the roar of a train passing overhead.

We were going to the Osceola, a dilapidated movie house in the Bronx when we didn’t know or care what was playing, or even if the theatre was open. We hadn’t told our parents, and when the station agent asked, “What are you two doing venturing out on a day like this.” We laughed and continued up the stairs out to the platform. 

There were a few people huddled under the wooden overhang, far back from the edge of the platform. We joined them against the wall of the platform, every couple of minutes stepping out a few feet to see if the train was coming. No one spoke to us as we waited. The men, all of the people waiting were men, held their hats in their hands and looked grim.

When the train came, we rushed into an empty car. Joe led us from one car to another, which swayed from side to side, pushed by the wind and the normal twists and turns of the tracks. Stepping between each car was dangerous, the metal floor slippery due to the rain. Opening the doors to go from one car to another we heard the sound of the wind howling along with the clatter of the el. It was deafening. We saw a handful of passengers, a woman with an empty baby carriage, a man reading a large newspaper folded up to a few inches, a couple of teenagers kissing 

Joe pulled me along until we reached the engineer’s cabin. From that window we saw everything as the train sputtered north. Joe’s body took up most of the window, but I managed to squeeze close enough to get a small portion of the window for myself. 

We saw a sky gone crazy. Blue and gray clouds moved with the speed of airplanes; newspapers spun round and round like buzzards circling a carcass. We watched windows of the tenement buildings we passed, those with shades pulled down, and others we could look through to gain a quick glimpse into the apartments. Occasionally, we saw a worried face looking out at us, a cigarette held tightly in a hand, its smoke a tiny tornado. Mostly we looked ahead, looking through the rain splattered glass as each new station came towards us like forlorn islands.

I don’t know who came up with the idea to travel to a movie in the Bronx. Probably my brother’s, as I can’t imagine him listening to my suggestion, let alone complying. Lately his tendency to bully had grown from teasing to physical abuse. And yet the Osceola was my theatre; I can’t even remember a time when Joe came with me to watch a Saturday of pictures, cartoons, and the weekly serial. Rain blackened our window and gave off our reflections. Joe, taller than I was, his blond hair now brown, blue eyed with a broken nose. I was still blond, wide eyed and opened mouth.

There were cross-ties in the wooden tracks, fences running alongside, signal lights, wooden tool shacks. The view was like a great fountain turned on its side and flowing towards our faces. I pictured myself on the bow of a ship, Joe and I twin captains heading into a storm.

We were back in time when Joe and I laughed and rolled on the floor over something we thought funny. Stop after stop, buildings after buildings, fire-escapes and cornices dripping with water; we watched below as we passed Army and Navy Stores, passed large narrow signs that read “Loans,” passed water towers. Our train pulled into 14th Street, and then 23rd, 34th, 42^nd. We passed movie marquees and Coca-Cola billboards. At 59th Street where three tough looking guys got on and gave us the eye. They left puddles of water on their seats when they left.

We laughed at the people on the platforms as we entered each station, people clinging to broken umbrellas, others with raincoats pushed up to their chins, everyone looking relieved as they saw the train pulling in. We took to writing our names on the window with our fingers: Joe, Pat.

The train carried us beyond 89^th Street where the engineer opened his door and asked us if we are enjoying the ride. We nod and gave thumbs up, big smiles on our faces, on his too. 

From the street below heard the shriek of an ambulance that rivaled the sound of the wind. We were in the hundreds now at, 106^th, 125^th, the buildings here mostly four storied with stores on the street level, their awnings rolled up, 129^th, and then we are crossing the Harlem River Bridge, looking down at the water striking the wooden piles and sending great gushes of water spraying up like fingers reaching out of the river. Joe pointed to the dock where our father worked, and I wondered if he was there now and maybe looking up at the train. We entered the Bronx and prepared to leave the train at 138^th Street. 

Our clothing hung on us like a second layer of skin as we climbed down the stairs. And then we flew towards Willis Avenue. There was little traffic on the street and practically no pedestrians. We heard the chimes from Saint Jerome’s Church. At Brook Avenue we slowed to a walk, out of breath but still laughing. As we neared Saint Ann’s Avenue, we saw the theatre, and only then began to worry that it would be closed or that we wouldn’t be allowed in.

The woman in the ticket booth asked what we were doing out in such weather, but she took our money and let us into the theatre. 

We came in the middle of one movie and sat through it and the next, not leaving until the first movie came back to where we came in on it. We had had the theater to ourselves, not even an usher to tell us to be quiet. Outside the streets were rivers emptying into avenues that became seas. 

Home is the sailor, home from the sea. I remember nothing of the ride back to Manhattan except that the train was crowded, and we couldn’t stand by the window in the front car. 

That was a spectacular day, but Joe and I were never that close again.