Party of Seven
Immediately after boarding the dinner boat, I would already like to exit it. Soft jazz is playing in the background as they lead us to our reserved seats. It seems odd that they would go out of their way to make reserved seating (and play soft jazz), considering it isn’t upscale enough to have some sort of heating when it is 15 degrees outside.
As soon as we leave the dock, the atmosphere of the boat completely changes. The music shifts to play “Party Rock Anthem,” meanwhile my mom and I are huddled in our bitesize dining table eating salads. I’m crunching on a piece of lettuce when I look to the open dance floor that I had hardly noticed was there until the jazz music stopped playing.
There’s a party of seven people, the only people on the dance floor. The lights of the city glitter against the black water beside me and I wonder how a moment can be both unforgettably beautiful and pathetic.
My mom is trying to take a picture of the skyline posing beside us. She’s jamming her phone against the plastic window of the boat and she doesn’t turn the flash off until the third attempt, cursing under her breath.
“We can walk out to the bow if you want to see it better,” I suggest.
My mom is swiping through the pictures she’s taken, lifting her brow in unsatisfaction.
She denies my suggestion: “It’s too cold.”
I counter, “These windows are plastic and there’s no heat, it’s just as cold in here as it is outside.”
She continues to persist in pushing her phone against the window trying to capture at least one solid picture.
The DJ plays “Welcome to New York” and I realize that I can’t take my eyes off the group of seven tourists that had taken dance floor. They’re swaying to the song, arms dancing over their heads as they holler the lyrics. There’s a radiant glimmer in their group, bouncing off each other as their hips move jubilantly.
The tour boat host, who has hardly told us anything about the city, announces that we are nearing the main attraction and recommends everyone make their way to the bow.
Once we’re outside, I lean against the side of the boat, next to the seven tourists who have stolen my heart. “Theme to New York, New York” starts to play as the towering green statue comes into view. My mom is zooming and tapping, trying to get the perfect shot. However, my eyes are drawn next to me, to the Seven.
Their faces illuminate like the brilliant skyline before us, their fingers pointed outward at the wide expanse of the statue, the river, all of it.
They are the unwavering brilliance of the monument, of the moment we’re supposed be revelling in. They are the moment in which I forget about the boat, the bitterness, the perfect capture, and I am here. I’m in a breathtaking city with millions of people and I know now, I know it cannot be captured.
My eyes swell as the song comes to a close and the Seven draw out the final words of Frank Sinatra. They wrap their arms around each other and I’m tempted to join in.
I feel this blinding gleam inside me as I turn back to my mom. I had not even noticed that the statue was already out of sight.
My mom is swiping her finger across her phone, examining the blurry, dimly lit photographs she has taken throughout the night. She seems unimpressed.
