The roof tar was black and thick and it smelled like the end of the world. The roofer came in summer and he spread the tar on the roof with a mop and the tar sealed the cracks and the tar kept the rain out. The roof tar was the skin of the building. The roof tar was what stood between you and the sky.

The smell of roof tar is the smell of summer in New York. You cannot separate them. Hot tar and hot pavement and the ice cream truck and the hydrant. The roof tar melted in the sun and got soft and if you walked on it your shoes stuck. I went up to the roof on East Seventh Street in August and my shoes left prints in the tar. My footprints are still on that roof. The tar preserved them the way amber preserves insects. I am fossilized on East Seventh Street.

The tar beach was the rooftop in summer. People laid towels on the tar and sunbathed and the tar was hot enough to burn your back but you did it anyway because the alternative was the fire escape and the fire escape was not flat. The tar beach was the poor man's Hampton. The tar beach was free and the view was better. You could see the whole block from the tar beach. You could see the Empire State Building. You could see New Jersey. The Hamptons cannot see New Jersey.

The roofer was the last craftsman to work with his hands above the skyline. The roofer carried buckets of tar up the ladder and spread them with a mop and the sun beat down and the tar steamed and the roofer worked until the roof was sealed. The roofer was paid by the square foot. The roofer did not take lunch. The roofer finished the job because the rain did not wait for lunch.

The new roofs are rubber membrane. White. Reflective. They do not smell. They do not melt. They do not take your footprints. The new roof is better at keeping the rain out. The new roof is worse at everything else. The tar roof was a place. The rubber roof is a surface. I miss the smell. I miss the footprints. I miss the tar beach and the view of New Jersey.

See also: Chimney Pot, Fire Escape