Kitchen and most of its inhabitants were still stubbornly proud of that fact.
Few skyscrapers had invaded the area west of Eighth Avenue. Side street after side street was lined with four- to six-story brownstones in various stages of disrepair and renovation. T.S. peered curiously out the window. Cheerfulness thrived only in very small pockets, but at least it had not given up entirely: streets gleaming with new brick and freshly planted trees were always bordered on either side by streets filled with the gray-stained concrete and crumbling front stoops of poverty.
Hell's Kitchen still had not decided what it wanted to be when it grew up. It was neither a bad neighborhood nor a particularly good one, its varied residents coexisting in a schizophrenic truce that defied description. Hard-working immigrants from every country of the globe peered out of the windows of their small restaurants and shops. Well-dressed businessmen scurried eastward, eager to make their after-lunch appointments. Hordes of preschool-age children swarmed everywhere, held in tow by overweight mothers of all races who shared a single, weary expression. They, in turn, were elbowed aside by fantastically fit actors and actresses, who picked their way through the crowds mumbling lines to themselves and trying on different faces. Attracted by cheap rents and the nearby theater district, they shared apartments in the neighborhood and added to its astounding (even for New York) diversity. T.S. felt that their fresh and hopeful faces only made the reality of the neighborhood that much more depressing.
No matter how hard it tried, he reflected, Hell's Kitchen was still lower middle class with an occasional sprinkling of hopeful yuppies seeking zooming property values. In fact, he passed several of these well-groomed residents as his cab roared uptown. They were tightly gripping their purses and briefcases, as they grimly steered clear of grimy, frantic groups that gathered on certain corners, chattering and pointing with self-importance to nearby windows.
T.S. sighed. That, too, had not changed. Waves of drug dealers and users still washed over the neighborhood's blocks in regular intervals, only to recede a few weeks later, when the cops finally chased them a couple of blocks down the avenue. But never far enough away to matter.
T.S. sighed again. Though the details had changed, the amount of progress was the same. Hell's Kitchen was always getting better, but never, ever quite got there.
He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he did not notice when his driver overshot Forty-Eighth Street and pulled up in front of a gleaming, new red-brick skyscraper at Forty-Ninth and Eighth. T.S. had heard it was being built, but he had not seen it yet. Its existence was a shock.
"Sorry, buddy." The driver shrugged. It was not his problem. "Con Ed was tearing up the streets back there."
T.S. was too stymied by the new building to reply and simply paid his bill and climbed out to stare. Someone had put a lot of money into this building, and thus into the neighborhood. Perhaps times were changing after all. But it was funny. He was not as happy as he thought he'd be.
The building loomed above him, its upper floors blocked by the brilliant glare of the sunlight high above. It was at least forty stories high on its Eighth Avenue side. T.S. peered around the corner—it stretched down the block all the way to Ninth Avenue, where it tapered down to a more modest six stories in height. Construction was still going on inside the lower floor interiors and torn brown paper ineffectually blocked the internal debris. But outside, brass fixtures and cornices winked in the bright sunlight, beckoning smartly dressed people, who fled from their cabs to step briskly through the building's revolving doors, anxious to trade the grime of the neighborhood for its high-tech, sterile interior.
T.S. paused to read the directory and saw that a major advertising agency had moved into the building. That explained all the slim bodies, deep tans, boxy shoulders, short hairdos and male ponytails flowing past him. Hell's Kitchen would never be the same.
On the other hand, he noticed with surprising satisfaction, the sidewalk surrounding the new edifice was thoroughly splattered with reddish spots. When cleaning the brick and brass for a final time, careless workmen had evidently allowed chemicals to spatter in the wind and fall onto the not-quite-set concrete—giving the new sidewalks a mottled, almost bloodstained, look.
So Hell's Kitchen had not given up without a fight, T.S. decided. And it had drawn the borders right up to the very