I was on the bus and heard the sound before I really knew what was going on. I was reading intently the New Yorker like the good little New Yorker that I am, so absorbed that I hardly realized just how far the bus had traveled (that early in the morning without coffee we could have been in the Pocono's and I’d have had absolutely no idea).
The point being that I feel about it about and I’m the first (or second, or third...) person to admit it when I’m wrong about something. I was wrong when I heard it, the hard abrasive sound of his janitor-like keys fall from the back of his maroon Jansport (faded and marked with inky scribbles) and fall to the ground - and I didn’t say a word.
I didn’t say anything at first because surely with a sound that loud and a weight so large suddenly being alleviated from his backside, he’d have at least noticed something was wrong. I didn’t say anything at first because surely that woman who was literally three feet away from him (and there was me, rows and rows away) would pipe up and do the right thing. I mean her and I were both looking at the same thing, the same pile of metal on the dirty floor, both starting to realize that time was passing faster than it should, and the longer we waited to act, the more lost this opportunity was going to become.
I watched in paralyzed horror as Jansport kept walking, took a sharp right turn at the front of the bus and bounded down the steps. " --------." My mouth was open and nothing came. I was really ready to shout (really), I even cleared my throat in preparation to get the best projection, but by the time I was ready it was too late - he was gone. For an instant, poised on the edge of my seat I had a brief flashing image of myself pouncing on the keys and jumping off the bus, running after him and returning his keys in a very saving-the-day kind of way.
But I didn’t. I didn’t say anything. What is it about doing the Right Thing that has the power of stopping us dead in our tracks? I sat back in my chair and thought about how horrible a person I was for not doing the Right Thing in that clear distinct window of opportunity. I glared at the woman up front who I decided should really take all of the blame. Our eyes met and she saw my look: Yeah you, my eyes said, you totally dropped the ball on that one.
After a few blocks however, back reading my New Yorker in total caffeine withdrawal, I felt a little better about the situation. This is after all, New York City , NEW YORK CITY, a place where you have to have it together, where you have to know where your head’s at, (and your wallet and your bags and your keys and your subway pass and your phone...) at all times, or else you’re simply not cut out to be here.
And perhaps when Jansport got home that night and, unable to get into his apartment where his couch and food and cat and bed were, he decided it was time to go.
April 30, 2008
April 27, 2008
Thing great thing about New York is -
you never know who you’re going to come across
on a random street corner.
You can bump into someone from a distant city of your past
on the corner of 14th and 6th as easily as you do,
a total stranger.
Suddenly, in a sea of crowded people you feel reassured that
(despite all signs to the contrary)
you are on the right path.
The great thing about New York is -
once you here you’re part of the city’s plan (like it or not),
and there’s no going back.
on a random street corner.
You can bump into someone from a distant city of your past
on the corner of 14th and 6th as easily as you do,
a total stranger.
Suddenly, in a sea of crowded people you feel reassured that
(despite all signs to the contrary)
you are on the right path.
The great thing about New York is -
once you here you’re part of the city’s plan (like it or not),
and there’s no going back.
April 21, 2008
Runner.
Every day in this city I meet someone new - every morning, every minute. Because walking the streets of this city you pass the lives of so many people in one moment, so absurdly and closely encounter them brief and blindingly fast like the beams of the headlights that buzz by - and then poof! They’re gone.
They’re all wondering (aren’t they?) the same things as they walk. All worried about bills (too many) and promotions (not enough) and success (too much?) and love (not enough?) and whether or not they turned off the coffee pot or the curling iron in their rush to get on with their days, to get on with their lives.
We rush here because we have to, because we sleep listening to the cars and cabs outside our windows, the echoing voices in the distance of people we hear clearly but will never meet. There is something comfortingly lonely about a place where every day, every moment, every block you experience a little piece of someone else’s life. You look them in the eyes, you smile at them, overhear the piece of a phone call, catch a glimpse of their happiness through their laugh, or see the sadness of their tears.
The more time I spend here the more I feel like we’re all the same. Like the man who I see every morning when I wait for the bus. He’s there waiting too, a familiar but nameless face in the crowd who then sits a few seats away as we speed across town. We pretend not to notice each other when we stand together on the sidewalk waiting to cross at 72nd and Broadway and then both wait for the same downtown 2/3 express train. We pretend not to notice again when we see each other at the gym, or when we find ourselves in the cereal aisle together at the corner market. We look straight ahead as we pass on the street when I’m walking towards Central Park for a jog, and he’s just on his way back.
So strange that we’re all here co-habitants of a place so small that we want so desperately to be our own. We all of us see each other and think: if it was me on that side of that street going in that direction, that could be me. The person crossing that street or hailing a cab or walking the dog or kissing that person on the corner in a passionate embrace - I could be them, we think, and them, and them and them....
But like everything in this city, these moments of clarity of our existence in a place so crazy come and go quickly. They pass with regret, with lost opportunity, with the realization that we only are who we are because that’s who we’ve chosen to be. So we keep passing each other like clockwork (bus and gym and grocery store...) day after day, morning after morning, moment after moment, running away from each other and pretending that we’re the only ones who exist - and then poof! They’re gone.
They’re all wondering (aren’t they?) the same things as they walk. All worried about bills (too many) and promotions (not enough) and success (too much?) and love (not enough?) and whether or not they turned off the coffee pot or the curling iron in their rush to get on with their days, to get on with their lives.
We rush here because we have to, because we sleep listening to the cars and cabs outside our windows, the echoing voices in the distance of people we hear clearly but will never meet. There is something comfortingly lonely about a place where every day, every moment, every block you experience a little piece of someone else’s life. You look them in the eyes, you smile at them, overhear the piece of a phone call, catch a glimpse of their happiness through their laugh, or see the sadness of their tears.
The more time I spend here the more I feel like we’re all the same. Like the man who I see every morning when I wait for the bus. He’s there waiting too, a familiar but nameless face in the crowd who then sits a few seats away as we speed across town. We pretend not to notice each other when we stand together on the sidewalk waiting to cross at 72nd and Broadway and then both wait for the same downtown 2/3 express train. We pretend not to notice again when we see each other at the gym, or when we find ourselves in the cereal aisle together at the corner market. We look straight ahead as we pass on the street when I’m walking towards Central Park for a jog, and he’s just on his way back.
So strange that we’re all here co-habitants of a place so small that we want so desperately to be our own. We all of us see each other and think: if it was me on that side of that street going in that direction, that could be me. The person crossing that street or hailing a cab or walking the dog or kissing that person on the corner in a passionate embrace - I could be them, we think, and them, and them and them....
But like everything in this city, these moments of clarity of our existence in a place so crazy come and go quickly. They pass with regret, with lost opportunity, with the realization that we only are who we are because that’s who we’ve chosen to be. So we keep passing each other like clockwork (bus and gym and grocery store...) day after day, morning after morning, moment after moment, running away from each other and pretending that we’re the only ones who exist - and then poof! They’re gone.
April 3, 2008
Lists.
The man sitting next to me on the uptown 6 train after work was intently making a list in an old beat up spiral notebook. He learned forward with his elbows on this knees and thought carefully before adding to the list in doctor-like scrawl:
McCain
R. Ray
NASCAR
Spitzer
rice pudding
Yankees
Each addition took time and care, deep thought and commitment as though once he wrote them down they would set the wheels in motion to change his life forever. He looked normal with khaki pants and a North Face jacket with a white earphones cord that disappeared into his pocket. I looked over his shoulder (something I try not to do) intrigued. What was the thought process behind this list? What did it mean? I tried to think of a common theme: Things he didn’t like? Favorite things? Pet Peeves? Reasons to keep going on?
For six stops he sat and pondered (as did I) until just before he stood up to leave. I watched as he wrote one last thing three times in a row that completed (perhaps) the list of all the important things that had been on his mind: Jennifer, Jennifer, Jennifer.
McCain
R. Ray
NASCAR
Spitzer
rice pudding
Yankees
Each addition took time and care, deep thought and commitment as though once he wrote them down they would set the wheels in motion to change his life forever. He looked normal with khaki pants and a North Face jacket with a white earphones cord that disappeared into his pocket. I looked over his shoulder (something I try not to do) intrigued. What was the thought process behind this list? What did it mean? I tried to think of a common theme: Things he didn’t like? Favorite things? Pet Peeves? Reasons to keep going on?
For six stops he sat and pondered (as did I) until just before he stood up to leave. I watched as he wrote one last thing three times in a row that completed (perhaps) the list of all the important things that had been on his mind: Jennifer, Jennifer, Jennifer.
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