Worthy Of This Great City Read online

  CHAPTER SIX

  The dedicated spokesman for the Delaware River Waterfront Corporation was understandably upset and not at all concerned with hiding it; he was standing halfway down the center aisle behind the tiny table that held his laptop, staring fixedly ahead at the screen with his hands on his hips. Not a very prepossessing stance for such an oversized, doughy individual, and his sweaty, middle-aged jowls and tiny pout did nothing to minimize the overall impression of petulance bridging on tears.

  The slide currently projected to the room featured a list of names and percentages superimposed over a view of the Delaware waterfront, the lovely blue span of the Ben Franklin Bridge looming in the foreground, the river itself sparkling attractively in the sun, the unfortunate smudge of Camden still over there on the other side.

  “As you can plainly see,” the DRWC man insisted, plowing on without bothering to regain his composure, possibly even commencing a masochistic descent into civic martyrdom. “These forums resulted in a short list of explicit guidelines that are important not only to the individual community groups, but are in our opinion vital to the development of the Landing and obviously of the city itself.”

  A representative of PennDesign, the primary mover behind this valiant effort, stood resigned and contained beside his uneasy colleague. This second person was compact and younger, perhaps in his early forties, with an athletic build to him, pale eyes behind beige plastic glasses, and normal brown hair in a severe cut. He seemed a trifle uneasy in his inexpensive business suit. Superficially he seemed a combination of nerd and high school football coach, what with the aggressive way he projected intelligent assurance, his measured eagerness for the fight, but he kept shifting from foot to foot and occasionally stroked his own thigh, clearing feeling out of his depth.

  It was a completely understandable nervousness, surrounded as these two were by a plainly unsympathetic if not actually hostile audience, all those chairs along the front and middle rows, a tight crescent of perhaps a hundred seats facing the Commission members filling that modestly appointed conference room with Chamber of Commerce types and local investors and out-of-state developers, gray and avid or else youthful and overeager, too many of them exhibiting that particular air of curt certainty that comes from adequately managing other people’s vital concerns. Heads tilted in an impatient imitation of interest, feet restlessly jiggling, brows furrowed with bored distaste, the majority of them maintaining an unconscious protective distance from we less involved or damnably uninformed press and civilian spectators occupying the back rows.

  At this point the PennDesign man took over the presentation, not much of an improvement; although introduced as a successful academician he had an unpleasantly intimate voice, that football coach inappropriately complimenting a player’s physical perfection. Probably stress emphasized the trait: this business mattered to him, emotionally.

  “These guidelines, as you can see, underline a requirement that any plan for the area constitute a genuine improvement to the city and to the waterfront itself, which is to say, not just more of the same but a type of development uniquely suited to the environment.” Then a proper professor’s pause to allow the class to fully visualize this dream.

  Here’s an interesting thing: these two had some real leverage but either didn’t know it or didn’t know what to do with it. I mean they practically begged to be exploited.

  “The next slide we’ve all seen before ad infinitum and it remains an absolute imperative: the Landing must be connected to the city, which means we have to solve two separate problems. First there’s the difficulty of access across I-95. Second, public walkways are required to tie together the entire waterfront into a commercial and recreational whole that stretches beyond the immediate Landing area north and south to the adjoining neighborhoods.” And another of those tiny strategic breaks. Not that anyone was actively listening; ultimately this was only a formality, a ritual in the holy name of transparency.

  “Naturally the whole project must be both affordable and sustainable.” With calculated emphasis to make sure the message penetrated the general haze. “And finally, the public must be included in every step of the process.” This with undiminished enthusiasm, which considered from one angle was pretty pathetic but from another demonstrated a sort of gallant faith on his part and indeed on the part of all these gentlemen and ladies present, highly competent professionals consenting to this totally bullshit public process because at some level they believed it crucial to something else absolutely essential.

  “This overlay is only intended to protect the site while a master vision is decided on and carried out; however it’s clear that many of the provisions proposed today both undermine the natural environment and hinder public access to the area.” Pointed out in regret, but also with a suppressed fury that momentarily shortened his words and caused him to lift both hands sharply, as if he were rehearsing martial arts in his bedroom. “Needless to say, the effect on the environment needs further study, and the zoning provisions must be amended to prohibit any new encumbrances in the waterfront setback zone that would further limit public access.”

  And with a slight flurry he turned it back over to his larger colleague, who obediently jumped back in with barely a preparatory breath but then, catching himself up, commenced speaking in that same slow, repressive sing-song, that cadence of exceptional frustration and patience. “More-ov-er, be-cause as we all know perfectly well, no casino project has been authorized for this site by the Gaming Control Board in Harrisburg, and no such project is included in the ov-erlay, it’s the opinion of the DRWC Board that zoning changes to permit surface parking in the tem-por-a-ry plan should be denied and that any such casino project eventually included in the master vision be re-quired to com-plete a garage facility sim-ul-tan-e-ous with its o-pening.”

  And those concluding remarks were directed, as everyone knew, at our mayor, so fervent and vocal in his support of that shiny riverfront casino, promoting that option as most likely to advance his overall agenda and therefore the public good. Knew too that His Honor was vehemently opposed to the competing entertainment and business complex proposal, tentatively known as the Columbus project, a vision of gleaming condominiums, better restaurants, a multiplex, upscale shopping, museums, and improvements to the marina. Of course, Columbus also violated all these DRWC community and environmental guidelines.

  The Philadelphia City Planning Commission is located in a renovated building on Arch Street, a significant sort of distance from the more impressive Center City office towers on Market Street and JFK above Broad, those slick newer constructions that house our major legal and financial concerns. We were far from everything, really, with the conference room’s windows giving onto a neighboring wall of similar windows with voyeuristic views of potted plants and some vague human smudges, plus one guy facing us for a half hour or so but looking down like he was taking a leak. Next to that, a steep drop into the granite canyon separating two older, grungy cement blocks fundamentally identical to the one we were in. So it’s not an especially impressive venue: I’ve frequented enough offices with truly spectacular vistas of this entire city, its rivers and the jets coming in, wonderful compensatory views hoarded by the elite. Here we had built-in pecan-finish sideboards filled with plastic forks and paper napkins, and gray industrial carpeting with indentations where someone had moved a conference table out of the way.

  The Commission itself is a sprawling civic conglomeration combining ex officio members of the current administration – the Finance, Commerce, and Managing Directors – with additional mayoral appointees handling the roles of attorney, architect, urban planner, community representative, and so on. So it was interesting that despite the City Hall affiliations they were definitely leaning towards Columbus, which preference they optimistically assumed would substantially influence the Gaming Control Board once that hearing got underway. Not to bore you.

  “So in sum what we propose is a comprehensive renovation reaching
far south and north of the Penn’s Landing area, with multiple access points, each one anchored by a destination enterprise. The whole will be linked together with a nature trail for pedestrians as well as a shuttle loop.”

  This particular session was another of those disjointed affairs where foregone conclusions are promulgated basically as a civic defense, to permit subsequent events to proceed roughshod over competing and sometimes even technically overriding authorities. Never mind all the players who don’t directly figure into my narrative: the responsible State Representative, one Jonathan Michaels (D.); the Delaware River Port Authority, which deals with extensions of public transit along the waterfront; the varied and uniformly vociferous community groups; the relevant and equally clamorous labor unions. All those staunch forces that combine to prevent everything.

  I was trying to get a better grasp of this issue in part because Thom had succeeded to Wilmer van Zandt’s position as Chair of Council’s Standing Committee on Commerce and Economic Development - the committee, you understand. In addition to Thom it consisted of June Dupre, replacing Thom as Vice Chair; Margery Haskell; Jack Murphy, that reptilian Councilman-At-Large and one of the mayor’s most ardent supporters in all things; Kevin Sullivan, a bland, upstanding man from the equally bland and self-respecting Greater Northeast, present not by popular mandate but because the City Charter insists on nominal minority representation; and David Cevallos, significantly a partner with PennDesign in the creation of the development guidelines about to be impolitely ignored by the financial powers that be. The final committee member, Donny Mealy, also held the informal but traditional right of veto granted every Councilperson on legislation directly affecting his district. Not coincidentally this same roster, plus two additional and here irrelevant members, comprised the Committee on Appropriations, because clearly nothing was going to happen barring the inclusion of some hefty municipal funding.

  As for the separate issue of that zoning request presented to Council, it had been procedurally directed as was proper, first with the required notice of a public hearing to collect testimony concerning what was already common knowledge except where it was rank speculation, with that promptly followed by a meeting of the Committee on Rules also open to the public, and that in turn immediately followed by an announcement from Rules that further examination of the matter would continue in private.

  This typical stratagem, which can be euphemistically described as maybe not precisely in accordance with the spirit of the City Charter, somehow failed to focus serious public attention on this latest incarnation of both the riverfront and casino issues, and while it was obvious to everyone which way the dominant winds were blowing I couldn’t guess whether or not they were strong enough to force along any real results. Then the mystery, if you can call it that, surrounding van Zandt kept me sufficiently intrigued, anyway enough to go poking around, an eye out for some hint of criminal activity in the usual run of legitimized corruption. There was that and maybe how Manetti had toyed with Ruth if he actually had, but that was probably just his dull humor.

  As a result I wasted some time clarifying stuff I knew wouldn’t matter because everyone’s real motivation went deeper and accordingly their stated positions were virtually intractable and unrelated to any actual events.

  Now I need to explain that Councilwoman June Dupre and I share an entirely fictitious romantic past and an extremely improbable future together. It’s a benign charade. While June is in some ways dependably vulnerable, she’s also intelligent and dedicated and when it suits her can be informative. Plus I always feel a little guilty about her, or annoyed with her, or both: she exudes such a high level of anxiety; she makes everyone in her vicinity hyperventilate.

  And I’m amenable to a little innocent flirtation, so when she said we could meet out at her riding lesson, come admire me, I thought what the hell, it’s little enough to pay.

  Not that she was likely to have any really valuable information to spill, being a fervent supporter of Columbus, the presumptive victor. I figured if anything fishy was going on it was probably on the casino side. The odd thing is, today it seems like June was a central figure in all this when she wasn’t. I think that’s mostly her opportunism and her wistful imagination, but the fact is she’s squeezed herself in.

  This stable was situated right on the Schuylkill, just outside the city limits up River Road and not far north of Manayunk, that trendy reborn canal town still clinging to its close-knit, defensive neighborhood ethos - hard-bitten, hard-drinking, all about beer and church and tough pride.

  So a pleasant enough locale for a Saturday digression. There’s a serious bike culture out that way, with the river trail running parallel to the river that comes straight out from Center City and continues north until ultimately losing itself amid the lovely celadon fields and log recreations of Valley Forge, there among the delicate, unconcerned deer. I like the trail, everyone does; you’re in constant danger of being run down by a uniformed rider in one of those streamlined, cleanly beautiful teams that pass you in a colorful blur, a living Neiman print. Whole families sway along on bicycles built for six, ridiculously athletic elderly men smile from contraptions designed to operate feet over heads, and young parents tow toddlers in netted, brightly-colored tents. Determined, overweight novices struggle along unaware of the protocols so neglecting to shout the requisite “On your left,” and instead desperately pinging their tinny bells.

  There’s an unexpected amount of woodland out there, magically sandwiched in between the city proper and the major suburbs as if the dimensions went whimsical and inserted a good chunk of Kentucky between a couple of grungy industrial parks. The countryside inexplicably unfolds in front you, pure backwater trash in some parts, mirroring the worst of the Jersey Pine Barrens, but here and there enclosing purely romantic remnants of delicate, deteriorating Victorian edifices. In another era fashionable refugees from the sweltering city traveled out on the new railway to rent a horse and carriage, spend the day boating, or go wading in those striped bathing suits.

  Today there are obstinate river rat communities along the bank, sometimes in doublewides but more recently occupying newer, pricey vacation constructions, their motorboats up on the sparse grass among the strutting geese. This even though these banks are closely flanked by the commuter and Conrail lines, and the highway is right there, too, never mind that the area floods on a fairly regular basis. The Septa rails continue on alongside the river, past the crumbling, anonymous stone foundations and the gritty shells of old factories that once exploited the river and canal, some renovated now into loft apartments, square brick edifices still decorated with ancient, barely legible painted advertisements, mercantile ghosts. Some of the truck garages of abandoned structures further upriver have been co-opted by sculling teams from the Main Line colleges and high schools, skeletal tiered racks of delicate long craft parked in weedy lots with students crawling about in all weathers. But many of the older buildings have vanished in the wake of yet more townhouse or office complexes, that pale, unoriginal new blight spreading inexorably over the ridges that shelter the water.

  The Schuylkill itself, so different from the broader, businesslike Delaware, widens and shallows out between occasional minor dams; often the water is so low you can plainly see the trash-strewn bottom, and fishermen wade nearly halfway across. It’s an area of shameful neglect; after every hard rain some of the trees nearest the water are left leaning low, stripped to their naked roots, until ultimately they topple in and vanish downriver. Now in some spots only mud and scant scrub separate the water from the Regional Rail tracks, a constant reminder that the generally placid Schuylkill is after all a river that after strong storms presents as a thick torrent of pure swirling energy the color of rich cocoa, a sludge of rushing debris. But in full flood presenting an entirely foreign, flat landscape that betrays no hint of the lost contours beneath, an eerie reformation.

  I’ve come up here to an impossible cobalt October sky perfectly reflecting flam
e-hued leaves in luminous water, a preposterously beautiful scene like the photograph from a jigsaw puzzle box. Sometimes, too, in the evenings if the light is exactly right, the charcoal outlines of trees and brush across the river detach themselves and hover in a third-dimensional middle distance like an enchanted floating island. Or in late summer the trees and shrubs are so covered in vines they look like mysterious ghost topiary.

  Well, the driveway up to June’s appointed stable was all calculated bucolic serenity, unregulated honeysuckle vines still blossoming fragrantly in the hedges, wetness flattening the yellowing grass, twin riding ovals with freshly painted rails, and the sky a sheer film of white over the lightest pale blue, a final watercolor wash before the incomparable ultramarine of October.

  At the long barn the persistent September heat intensified the good, vibrant scents of manure and beast and earth, the overall sheltered silence emphasizing the unearthly call of bullfrogs from a ditch choked with evil green algae. Dogs of varied sizes and mixed parentage were padding around inquisitively, and a huge yellow cat was stretched atop one of several standard redwood picnic tables, enjoying what sun filtered through a stand of enormous oaks and pines, watching the leaves dance. Beyond the cleared yard fronting the barn the ground was carpeted with dried pine needles; there were small flowerbeds around some of the trees with plantings of familiar things like pansies and marigolds.

  Not a fancy place, or even an especially prosperous one, or so I concluded from the patched blacktop on the drive and the shabby if punctilious condition of the barn. That building, its white paint scabbed and grimy, sat well above the river; you could just catch a glimpse of water down through the shallow woods, a thin, luminescent silver-gray flash. Several of those tall electrical structures like miniature Eiffel Towers rose scattered across the grounds, defacing the purity, and a substantial white house was barely visible at a little distance, lower than the barn and sheltered in a young grove.