It’s just after 1 p.m. on a Saturday, and the tram platform breathes like a crowded lung. Strollers wedge against backpacks. A toddler waves a pretzel stick as if blessing the line. Residents time their breaths between the sweet fog of someone else’s vape. The queue spills down the stairs and unfurls across the plaza—orderly, resigned. Tourists carry urgency; residents carry groceries. No one denies the view. But a view is not a right-of-way. The Center of Gravity is Two Letters Tall I keep drifting back to the red “RI” letters—bright , cheerful, and, if you listen closely, slightly smug. They face the river and the skyline like a mirror held up to Manhattan, which tells you everything about who they’re speaking to. If they were for us, they’d face Main Street. If they were for commerce, they’d point to it. If those letters loved Main Street, they’d at least make eye contact. If they were for welcome, they’d introduce you to neighbors, not your own reflection. On a good day, the sign buys a postcard or two at the Historical Society booth—bless them, they steward memory on a budget that wouldn’t cover a Midtown lunch. But the sign wasn’t built to feed a booth. It feeds a loop: tap in, glide over, take the photo, tap back. A souvenir of passing through. The sign is bilingual; in red paint it says “Welcome,” and in practice it says “Step aside.”
I hear the argument rattling around the platform like the tram cable itself: tourists versus locals, who goes first? The sign answers without words: not you. A Ride With… David* One windy afternoon, David joined me—92% Stone, 8% Krout, and a rounding error that I was talking to myself. We stood under the cables while day‑trippers choreographed themselves against the red letters. “Why is it even here?” I asked. “If the only thing it directs is attention toward leaving.” He tipped his head, eyes on the skyline. “If I remember right, it rode in with the Main Street handoff,” he murmured. “They said it would lift the shops. Maybe. But the gravity’s south. Photos, leases, momentum—Southtown eats first.” He went on in that dry way of his that sounds like memory even when it might be hypothesis: buildings don’t rise and fall with a bodega’s register, so love for Main Street is performative—hours posted, lights on, just operational enough to keep the peace. “A sponsored museum,” he said, “curated for comfort.” As for the mood at home, he claimed most locals hate the tourists. I’m softer on that verdict; I think most locals hate being demoted. The result looks the same from the queue. I glanced at the letters. They kept smiling like a host who won’t learn your name.
What the Sign Teaches Every public object teaches. A bench says rest here. A stop sign says not yet. Our red letters say: the photo comes first. Practical test: picture the Saturday crush. A home health aide balancing bags. A parent with a stroller and a list. An elder with the quiet dignity of someone who has already waited once today for a prescription. Now picture the front-window scrum for a skyline selfie. The sign doesn’t cause that moment, but it blesses it. It is the stamp of approval on a habit of overlooking. If the sign was meant to lead people to Main Street, it would face Main Street. If it was meant to celebrate arrival, it would make space for staying. It does neither. It’s not a gateway; it’s a backdrop. And a backdrop, by design, stands behind the subject. That’s the problem: the subject isn’t us. I don’t want tourists wandering our side streets like it’s Times Square any more than you do. But I also don’t want residents turned into stagehands for somebody else’s matinee. The tram used to be a bridge. Lately it feels like a set. The Quiet Question We can argue forever about fixes—resident lines, timed boarding, caps. That’s Theo’s canvas and he paints it well. My question is simpler, smaller, and harder to wriggle past: What value does the sign add that we actually feel? Not measured in impressions or hashtags. Measured in groceries carried home, minutes not lost, and the lightness that comes from being treated like the point of a place instead of a prop in it. If we can’t name that value without reaching for a brochure, then the letters are telling the truth we didn’t want: who comes first. And it isn’t us. Final Approach Another cabin glides in already half full—front window secured by a pair of matching fanny packs. Behind them, the line flexes, forgives, recalculates. A woman with a cane tightens her grip on the rail. A teenager turns the sign into a backdrop for a dance I can’t name. Somewhere, Main Street waits with its ordinary miracles of dry goods and deli coffee and the neighbor who remembers which milk you buy. The tram hums. The letters gleam. The lesson remains. Our tram’s new motto: come for the skyline, stay for… nothing. *This is a work of narrative storytelling inspired by real events. Some characters, dialogue, and scenes are imagined to convey broader truths and do not depict actual conversations or individuals. Subscribe for free to receive updates on new posts and support our work.
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Friday, 5 September 2025
The Sign That Chooses Sides
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