Yesterday, as I was hurrying up 58th street after dropping off yet another pair of shoes whose heel-tips had been eaten by the escalator in the Time Warner building, I saw a man who was standing still as those running upstream split around him. He was clearly not on speaking terms with social reality, which made me not only like him right off, but also gave his face a look that was both centered and petrified all at once. He was grounded, but his feet were on a planet entirely his own.
It is not uncommon in New York City to come across humans acting strangely, being as this is a city full of oddity, perhaps most especially among the rich. If you ever need to do a paper for your psych class, just bribe the doorman of any building on Sutton Place, sit in the lobby and watch the OCD parade. It's not pretty, but believe me, you will have material. No, this man's strangeness had a kind of perfection to it, untainted by any outside force like too much money and not enough talent. He was pure, gaunt, and, if properly cleaned, could pass for any used-to-be-aristocracy European.
After nearly knocking him down, I backed up and away, taking him in. He looked me in the eye and gestured--his right hand to his heart and bringing his left hand, open-palmed, down to the street--as if to say, don't you even see me? I lingered in his loneliness one moment too long. My throat swelled; I looked away and walked on to the subway.
On the train, a woman announced she was homeless, had MS, and a 13-year old daughter. She said she would take anything: food, something to drink, anything. I started to do what I always do: pretend I am important; I have to check my phone. And then I remembered that I wasn't, and reached for my wallet, not caring what she did with it, or even if it was true. When I gave it to her, she didn't look at me. She just mumbled, habitually, God bless, not seeing me, and walked on.
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