Weird City

by Gareth Edel

... The runner was in his late twenties or early thirties was well dressed and in a long coat. He ran west on 14th street until the middle of the block between Irving and 4th avenue where he glanced behind him, decided traffic had a break and sprinted perpendicular to his previous tack. His change of direction was accompanied after a moment by the screeching cry of breaks desperately depressed to the floor. Heading straight into the street he was met in the second lane by the car, which had caused the scream. It was a black four-door sedan, relatively new, still gleaming.

The runner's body lifted slightly off the ground and curved over onto the hood of the car, then rolled down onto its knees in front of the car. With an only slightly surprised look on his face, he started to get up. The driver started to get out of the car with a far more surprised and horrified look. The driver an urban Latino, in his early twenties, with several friends in his car, went forward to try to help, but was met by an embarrassed victim, waving him away as he started running again.

The gesture aimed at the driver was the sort of quick flip of the hand one usually sees used to say "sorry" when a pedestrian in the crosswalk holds up a car as the light turns green, or perhaps, when you bump into someone you don't know on the sidewalk. It was accompanied with a brief nod of his head, and he was off, running. The driver, in a stunned moment, watched him go, as did those of us who had stopped to watch, whatever our reasons, we were motionless, while the runner started and sped across the street and west again. The people on the sidewalks started moving again, and I stood opposite the driver as he tried to catch a hold on the moment, then before I did, he moved into his car and closed the door. He pulled very slowly to the side of the road fifty or so feet down the street. Climbed out of his car and strode fast, purposefully up to the front of the car, where, as I began to walk on down my side walk, he began to inspect his car for damage from the impact. The runner, though he must have been bruised, he ran all the way up to Broadway, not slowed by his interaction with the hood of a two thousand plus pound car... and when i saw him get to the corner and turn south, I glanced back, and the driver, unharmed, having exerted himself only by pressing his foot down, was still staring at the hood of his car.

The next day, i met friends, Friday night in the village, and we went out for drinks to a new dive bar, well, new to us. Drinks were enjoyable, and friends are a kindness in this often all too shitty world, but my favorite part of going down town, is the bumping into other people's lives.

Other people, like the skinny girl who came over and asked for a light for her cigarette, puffed once, let it burn and then threw it down with a vehemence that i would describe as hateful, i can only imagine she was trying to quit smoking.

Then there was a man who was crying in McDonalds, sitting silently shaking.

The young college men who walked past me talking about something they should never speak about loudly on the street. Their actions were probably not criminal, but undeniably cruel. Having never met the girl about whom they spoke, I wanted to find her and give her a hug. I don't see think I have ever understood intentional cruelty, having told someone one thing, only so they would be hurt more when they learn your opinion is the opposite. Lying to create feelings, so that you can manipulate. Regardless of my opinions of that, these are things which shouldn't be chatted about, wearing smiles on a sidewalk.

Memorable, may describe the Mountain climbing man who might have been a native American. He told us we were lucky, he told us to live life, he talked about falling, and breaking both legs and his pelvis, and how he thinks if he can recover, and then anything is possible if one is working for it, has a passion. He hit on my friend Stephanie. He said my friend Stephanie had what he called "Knack" the passion, or energy or vim, or whatever he was trying to describe, it more or less meant beautiful, but not in a physical way, it was beautiful how one might describe spirit. At any rate, "having Knack" is a good thing, which he never seemed quite sure I had. I found myself unable to admit to him I have no passion.

A little later in the night, I went outside for a cigarette. I had heard our friend Mo the doorman talk to some patron, in hipster uniform, about an old maybe homeless man standing near the door, it had bothered the patron. Mo didn't want to go out in the cold and try to bother an old man, and let it pass, but I saw him when I went outside. He was bundled up, and his clothes were in worn but still decent condition, which suggested to me he was either still living somewhere or was newly homeless. He was in his late sixties, or early seventies, he looked very sad. He stared at the ground, glancing up as he tried to ask people who passed for a dollar. No one gave him money, as I smoked my second cigarette, and I felt bad for watching him, so I glanced into the bar window and saw my friends, and Mo in the warmth. The contrast of our youth and relative happiness, made me feel even sadder looking at the weary old man in the cold, but when I glanced back, he was looking at me, and started to come over.

He held a hand half out, still looking down, and muttered.

"A dollar, I something to eat" stumbled out of a mouth, rich with only the remains of a lifetime spent speaking an eastern European language. I guess Ukrainian or Polish, because there is still a strong community in the east village.

"I'll see what I have." I respond, digging my hand into my pocket and drawing out a large handful of change. I could see it was over a dollar, Washington's head peeked off of five quarters among the wave of copper and smaller change. He looked at the money hitting his hand, and was quiet for a moment. It was then that it occurred to me he hadn't expected me to give him anything. I ask myself still, how bad you have to be off, before you are failing to panhandle, at least half an hour, with no money for your trouble, in freezing weather, standing on the sidewalk in a hat that can't cover your ears, and still staying there. Worse yet, how bad your situation must be, to stay there after, you are convinced no one will give you money. I come to one conclusion; you have to have given up on things improving. Or so it seems to me, but that is how I see it, and that is what i was thinking as he looked back and forth from the change I gave him, to my face as I looked at his.

I gave him a half smile, and said "good luck, I hope you can stay warm, maybe get something to eat." and he looked down, very still and quiet, for what seemed much longer a time then it was. and he looked up, and mumbled something I couldn't understand. So I said I understood. I thought maybe he would walk on after that, but he mumbled some more, and this time I told him I didn't understand. He spoke up and I understood parts, he said he was cold, and he wanted to thank me, and he wasn't from here. And then he mumbled in decreasing volume, and tilted his head down until I noticed he was beginning to cry. He looked up and said he was a professional, or maybe he had said he had a profession, until he came to this country. Here he couldn't find work. Couldn't be something I couldn't understand. And he spoke, and I understood enough words to hear desperation and bone cold weariness and more to my shame then anything else, I could hear his gratitude that I would bother to give him money and then talk to him.

He talked and I nodded, and eventually he looked at me long and asked if I was Russian, I said my father's family was from Russia and he said loudly, differently then any of his other words. I am Polish, he said it in Polish, and Polish sounded like Polskya or something, but I understood. He asked if I spoke Russian, and though I said no, he began speaking in Russian or polish to me, which made me smile. He occasionally said words or phrases in English among the jumble of the language I didn't understand, but even some of these were mumbled and became untranslatable. I nodded, and his face moved maybe as he tried to smile, and when he looked sad I said I was sorry, I wasn't sure if I meant it relating to what he said, or the fact I couldn't understand. At the end of his half of the conversation, he stood up straighter, put his hand on my shoulder, and thanked me, I nodded, he said good night, and I said Dobra-nos which was my bad pronunciation polish for good night. He smiled for the first time, and said something I couldn't hear, and he walked off. I finished the cigarette I was smoking, my third of the interaction. I felt a little burned out, and though the fourth cigarette in a row hadn't helped, it wasn't the cause.

When I stepped back in, Mo asked what happened, I said I spoke to the old man, I said that he was unhappy. Mo thanked me for having gotten rid of him, I didn't say your welcome, I simply turned back to my beer, and tried to warm up.