It’s one o’clock in the morning, at the corner of Eighth and 34th, and there’s a lot of screaming, yelling, people running around, all manner of chaos in front of Madison Square Garden.

This is not a game night. But there are plenty of layabouts and panhandlers, hawkers and pimps. It’s Friday Night in New York, New York 2001, the say-hello-to-my-little-friend-1990 New York.

Strolling further, towards Port Authority, the mood gets gradually randier, with hordes of teenagers roaming, the two Starbucks, recently opened on one of the last holdout stretches on Midtown’s big revitalization campaign, are shuttered, and look just a little frightened. I’m thinking, it’s not long before they figure out that in New York, those iron gates are not just for show – they might want to consider splashing out for a little extra security. All that glass is just aching to be shattered.

Suddenly, I’m flashing back. I’m 10 years old, and this is my Eighth Avenue. The Eighth Avenue that once scared the shit out of me on class trips.

At 42nd, amid the sea of chain restaurants and megaplexes where pornos once ruled the block, the mood is surly. There are cops everywhere with their thumbs hooked into beltloops. The homeless and mentally deranged are on every corner, groups of teens of all shapes, sizes and colors are hovering, menacing.

It’s not like we’ve never seen this before, it’s just that well, the feeling.

The feeling.

It’s a feeling I haven’t felt in years – that dark, electric edge, any moment, things could spin out of control. The vibe, the charged atmosphere. It’s there. Oh boy, is it ever.

I find myself worried, and then, all of a sudden, I’m thinking – I used to go half way round the world to flirt with danger. I can stop traveling now – it’s in my own goddamn town again. All that complaining about Manhattan, well – perhaps that will stop.

An old trend is resurfacing. At the top of many subway entrances I’ve used in the past month, a pack of surly types blocks the steps, one must push through where stairways were once free and clear. They’re looking around, watching, waiting, perhaps for the cops to go away, the cops that I now see standing in the stations just about any time I’m in the system late at night.

Is the NYPD on alert? They’re everywhere. Absolutely everywhere. It’s like Mexico, or South Africa, without the automatic weapons slung across their chests. Are they waiting for things to collapse? Or are they thinking that perhaps by creating a strong presence across the city, the inevitable spinning-out-of-control can be delayed.

Who knows. I call Joe, who lives on 45th Street. Is it just me, or did Eighth Avenue go crazy in the last month or two?

Definitely, he says – it’s changing. Well, not changing – regressing.

Outside McHale’s, one of the last truly friendly bars in the city, a middle-aged man who looks a little scary has his hands down his pants, obviously pleasuring naughty bits. No one seems to mind. There’s more screaming, yelling, probably all in good fun, but there’s nothing fun about the sirens. Even the few remaining adult video stores seem more seedy, neon seems to pulse brighter.

Is it happening? Is it? I’ve fought with countless people, insisting that crime has gone up, there are more and more random violent acts in the outer boroughs that we’re not paying attention to. Yet, everyone insists that I’m full of shit.

Rising crime's no treat, but it’s nice to see that this city still has a pulse, that it can still groove to a beat other than Boring.

Time will tell.

Meanwhile, no sleeping in the subway, y’hear?

Email: davidr@lifeingotham.com

Next Update: 15 March