Into this dandy's memoir of misery, the ghost ship Young Norval sailed up sixth avenue.
Perhaps "sailed" is the incorrect term. The phantom ship was more pushed, tumbling stern over bow, propelled by the nightmare memory of the last hurricane to strike Manhattan way back in 1821. Transparent sailors screamed as they dove to a watery grave. Taxi cabs swerved and pedestrians from west fourth to thirty-fourth stared in disbelief at the enormous manifestation. The spectral schooner broke apart at Herald Square, as what happened nearly two centuries ago. Her shattered hull and splintered timbers dissolved into a thick mist that smelled of sea salt and bellowed the lonely drone of a lighthouse horn. The fog persisted for an entire hour before it faded, leaving stunned Macy's shoppers to ponder if they'd truly witnessed a sidewalk shipwreck or a publicity stunt for the latest Pirates movie.
That was eight days ago.