The fire hydrant was the swimming pool of the poor. Somebody with a wrench opened the hydrant and the water shot into the street and the block became a beach. Kids in their underwear running through the water screaming. The ice cream truck parked on the corner. Somebody's grandmother watching from a lawn chair. The fire hydrant turned a block of concrete into a summer vacation. No admission. No lifeguard. No rules except do not stand in front of the bus.

The open hydrant had a sound. A roar. Water hitting asphalt at pressure. And underneath that roar a kid with a radio on a windowsill playing Motown. And underneath that a mother yelling to come inside. And underneath that the sound of summer in New York which is the sound of a city that refuses to be quiet even when it is a hundred degrees. The hydrant was the soundtrack. The water was the bass line. The screaming kids were the chorus. The whole block was a song.

I played guitar next to an open hydrant on Avenue B one summer. Nineteen seventy. The water was so loud I could barely hear myself. But the kids could hear me. Because kids can hear music through anything. Through traffic. Through construction. Through an open fire hydrant at full blast. A kid stopped running through the water and stood there dripping wet and listened to me play and when I finished he said play it again. That is the best review I ever got. A wet kid on Avenue B asking for an encore.

The city tried to stop the hydrants. They put caps on them. They fined people for opening them. They sent the fire department to shut them off. The city declared war on summer. Because the open hydrant was uncontrolled joy and uncontrolled joy is dangerous to a city that runs on control. A kid running through water on a hot day is not productive. A kid running through water on a hot day is not contributing to the economy. A kid running through water on a hot day is free and free is the one thing the city cannot monetize.

I miss the hydrant. I miss the sound of water hitting the street. I miss the kids screaming. I miss the grandmother in the lawn chair. I miss a city where joy was free and public and loud and wet. They put sprinkler caps on the hydrants now. A polite little spray that does not reach the street. A controlled amount of fun. A regulated amount of summer. That is not a hydrant. That is a compromise. And the street does not do compromises. The street does full blast or nothing.