MAY 29, 2003 -- It was 9:00 on a Wednesday night and I had parked my car down by Bradley Park to decompress from a grueling, 4-1/2 hour council meeting.

"Oh man, I'm not sure I can take much more of this," I fretted, staring at the deserted beachfront and thinking about everything that remained to be done.

A sudden knock on my car window caused me to jump.

"You can't let this stuff get to you," said an echo-y voice in my ear. "Believe me, I've been there."

Cautiously, I lowered the car window and peered out.

"Oh great!" I exclaimed, slamming my fist on the dashboard. "First we have a crane fall through the blasted boardwalk, and now some clown drags James Bradley's statue out into the middle of Kingsley Street. When will it all end?"

"Actually, I walked," replied the same hollow voice, which I now realized was coming from the statue. "I heard that someone proposed relocating me last year, so I thought I'd stroll over and check out the view."

"That's it - I'm cracking up. I've got to stop reading Frank D'Alessandro's columns," I moaned, holding my head between my hands.

"They're actually pretty clever, aren't they? Once in a while, one of them blows across the park and I read it.

"You know," he added, "I hate to brag, but I actually gave him the idea that - if they put me out in Kingsley Street - they give me a police whistle, a stop sign, and a ticket book so I can help direct traffic. It gets pretty boring out here."

"Well, I could use some boring about now," I snorted back. "It seems like we have a disaster a day, between redevelopment, the senior center, downtown, the budget, and everything else. And, of course, now people are flogging us over those Bergh Street trees...."

"Actually, I hate to think what they would have said to me if they'd been around in 1870," he shuddered. "When I arrived, Asbury Park was a naturalist's paradise; all sand dunes and scrub pines, seabirds and wildflowers, foxes and turtles. City folk came here to unwind and commune with nature.

"Do you know how many trees I plowed down to create Asbury Park? I cringe every time someone cranks up that cursed "They Paved Paradise" song on the radio. I'd never get past the state CAFRA regulations today, but it wouldn't matter. The environmentalists would string me up before I had time to apply."

"By the way," he asked, a bit hesitantly, "you're not really going to widen Bergh Street and take out all those sycamore trees are you?"

"Nah, that's just a glitch in the plan. We're going to get it fixed," I sighed. "If we widened Bergh Street by 11 feet, people would be driving through Steve Rosenthal's bathroom on their way to Second Avenue."

I brightened just a bit. "Actually, we're going to plant dozens of new trees and shrubs to cool down those wide avenues of yours again, once we get them restored. But redevelopment certainly is a headache. How did you get it all done?"

"Well, as the master developer, I provided the roads, the utilities, and the boardwalk buildings, and I brought in subdevelopers to build those giant hotels you see on postcards."

"Hmmm, that sounds weirdly familiar," I commented.

"Of course, I could pretty much do what I wanted back then," Bradley pointed out. "For one thing, I didn't have to worry about balancing beachfront redevelopment with restoring the whole rest of the town. And there were no residents or city government to worry about the environmental impact, or the huge, block-long hotels, or the dusty, congested streets, or how long the buildings would last.

"I did take some guff though about the old boats I strung around the beach for the kids to play on. People thought they were tacky." He cast a furtive glance towards the newly painted pavilions, and we both coughed and looked away. "Maybe I should talk to those guys," he suggested.

I was curious. "Is it true that, towards the end of your life, you said you wished you'd never even heard of Asbury Park?"

He reddened slightly under his green patina. "Yes, but I was getting tired. The place was booming, and people were making lots of conflicting demands on me. And my doctor had never heard of Zoloft or Prozac."

"So, can you tell me whether we're going to succeed?" I asked, tactfully changing the subject. "Will the beachfront finally come back and help fill up our city coffers again, so we can get moving on the STARS program and a new senior center and more recreation and more police and a fire station and a city hall roof that doesn't leak?

"And will we be able to pull it off without getting strung up ourselves?"

He gave me a long look. "So what are your options if you don't try?"

"Then I guess we'll never know, will we?"

"So, there's your answer."

I paused. "So what if you're just a figment of my imagination and you're just saying what I want to hear to humor me?"

"Does it really matter?" he asked.

I shrugged, and he continued, "After all, life's a crap shoot. Although, of course, I'd never endorse gambling," he added with a nervous glance toward Ocean Grove. "But Asbury Park certainly can't stay like this."

"By the way," he added, with a metallic twinkle in his eyes, "I've got something I'd like you to try out on Frank.

"Tell him that the city's planning to commission two new statues depicting the Fishman brothers, and that you're going to put them right beside me to honor Asbury Park's newest master developers. I'd love to see his reaction."

"I'm adventurous, but I'm not nuts," I told him, and we both giggled.

I waved good-bye and cranked up the window. Tomorrow would be another day.