It’s early evening, and M and I have some time to kill before a film at a theater in the East Village. We’ve spent the hot afternoon walking around the city, and decide to make one last stroll to the riverfront, where cooler air beckons. But when we cross Avenue C we realize that our route will be blocked by the FDR Drive. We continue on nonetheless, and as we’re walking past the power station that fills the block between 13th and 14th streets, a series of warbling, high-pitched tones become audible above the menacing hum of the power station and the traffic on FDR. The sounds gradually coalesce into the legato droning of a bagpipe. My first thought: a solemn ceremony is taking place inside the power station. Perhaps a ConEd worker has died and is being memorialized through this traditional musical salute. But do power companies observe the same funerary protocols as police and fire departments? As we approach the end of the block we see, standing tucked away in a niche of the security fence, a solitary bagpipe player, his back turned toward us, playing his plaintive, mournful melody into the dark recesses of the power station.