Pretty much without a trace, Angelica's Herbs, long on 1st Ave and 9th St (anyone know how long?) is empty. The sign is gone and there's little left but the soft waft of herbs, like a faint cloud around the gated entrance.
A tipster wrote in about it and I went there to find a man scraping and painting. He was just hired to cover up the graffiti with a coat of fresh paint so the landlord doesn't get fined by the city. He has no idea what's coming next. We speculated and agreed: hopefully not a bank.
We looked skyward and pondered together, as many folks in the neighborhood have done for years, what might be hidden inside the top floors, their windows sealed by warped plywood. "God only knows what they'll find up there," he said, his voice filled with the thrill of mystery.
Like the old candle building on Elizabeth, the upper floors of Angelica's building have seeded wonder in many minds with fantasies of green and fragrant bales of marijuana, or the skeletal remains of long-dead hippies, or oompa-loompas busy mixing up a wild batch of Window Pane. Who knows the wondrous secrets hidden there?