Be Fazed

Iwas aware of the noise, loud bass pops, before I wondered what it was. At first it sounded like percussion, machinery, or backfires, but irregularity or duration ruled each out. A drummer would be rhythmic, a contraption consistent; an operator would turn a suffering engine off. I went outside to see what was going on.

The sound came from the avenue, one of the broad uprights of the city’s grid. It was wintry early evening, the sidewalks flecked with people, the streets with traffic. There was a fire truck and a police car on the far side of the avenue, and passersby looking back in the direction of our building. About two-thirds of the way up the block in the near, downtown lane was a manhole cover. Steam poured from the pick holes, and the sound issued from thence too, muffled but loud. There were firemen walking up and down or standing, as if waiting to be told what to do. I had a conversation with a delivery guy. It seemed there was an electrical fire below the surface of the avenue. Nothing had been done yet but officialdom was on the case.