Enamul Hoque and the garden of love

So this afternoon I had a completely surreal adventure dropping off a grant at the JPMorgan Chase corporate headquarters at 48th & Park Ave in Manhattan. Surreal element #1: the program officer with whom I spoke last Friday about the grant retired from the bank, um, last Friday. But gave no indication last Friday that he was doing so - I found this out from his outgoing voicemail today.

Surreal element #2: the entire sidewalk in front of JPMorgan Chase corporate headquarters was barricaded with stanchions and caution tape and fronted by tired-looking but helpful security guards, one of whom accompanied me to the front desk to drop off my packet for whoever was replacing the now-retired Program Officer.

When I asked if this was a normal level of security for the building, they let me know that no, it was not, and no, it was not due to the car bomb that had almost detonated in Times Square yesterday - it was to prevent any more protesters from rushing the front lobby like they had on Friday. Hmm. I wondered idly if this had anything to do with the Program Officer's retirement as I followed their directions for dropping off the packet at the Messenger Station, which I found by "following the arrows" through Surreal Element #3, the pervasive construction going on in the building, which, compounded with the abundance of guards and barriers, and signs requesting official ID, made the whole place feel closer to a restricted military zone than the headquarters of a powerful financial institution.

And when I got to the door of the Messenger Station, a security booth-like room on the back of the building, it was completely unguarded and unlocked. Anybody's grandmother could've strolled in, offered the nice men behind the desk a grenade, pulled the pin, and disappeared back outside into the sea of weary bankers making their way to the subway before you could say "subprime lending". Which I genuinely don't wish upon those guys, or anyone, whether or not they're working for the Man. But like so many attempts to curb the chaos that threatens to erupt at any moment (and often does) in the madness of midtown Manhattan, the bank's attempts at security were fragile at best.

Surreal element #4 was leaving the Messenger Station, where the cool guys behind the counter promised to pass on my package (which I guess they must have taken on faith was not a letter bomb), stepping back out into the aforementioned sea of bankers, and having no idea where I was. Or how to crack the code of this swarming crowd in all its incongruous look-at-me glory. That six-foot-tall woman in black stiletto pumps, with a tight black miniskirt and suit jacket and slicked-back black-dyed bob strutting by with a satisfied look on her face: cutthroat financier or European whore? Hard to tell. And that woman there, a foot shorter with the pale blonde bangs and braid, and probably not of the banking domain judging from her almost thigh-high lace-up-the-back pointy black boots - fashion consultant or dominatrix? Got me.

But over there on the corner across the street was a character whose signals I could read just fine: pretty pictures, sizzling grill, happy man behind the cart. A soft pretzel and a kabob, please. Yes. We chatted about the heat, the car bomb, his barbecue sauce. And the world kinda sorta made sense again.

But this story is not about all of that. This is about Enamul Hoque, whom I met after I returned to the hood, and stepped out of the subway stop and thought, oh wow. I really do live in a different world.

to be continued...