Tomato Cages

The stair door opens on the roof garden: tomato cages, squash vines, a parapet white with droppings. At the north edge sixty grackles stand on the crossbars of the antenna, shouting. The black cable comes out of the door behind you and runs along the parapet to a box at the foot of the antenna.

A man kneels by the box, splicing. It was a cell repeater once and is mostly tape now. Around him lie two dish antennas cut from satellite TVs, three car batteries, a bicycle on a block with its back wheel against a motor, and a bag of connectors sorted by someone with very small handwriting.

Hold this, he says, and puts the cable in your hands a foot behind the splice. The box is for them. He tips his chin at the plaza.

A woman at the parapet holds her phone against her chest in both hands, screen in.

Below her the plaza is full. Since noon the crowd has stood in it with its phones held up toward the roof. They are all dark. Nine weeks ago the east side's exchanges burned, and the networks went down with them.