Archive Page 44

03
Dec
05

In, around and through

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: Bar Stories, Funny and Gay
Tags: ,

Last night at the bar, my boyfriend Jeff was outside on the smoking patio out front with some friends. I could see them through the floor-to-ceiling windows from where I was standing, safe and warm inside. (I secretly relish the new no-smoking laws.)

I wasn’t paying much attention to the smokers, but before long one of my friends ran into the bar in hysterics. A good joke outside, I guessed. I didn’t ask. Smokers have their own social structures and habits and laws when they get together, and I think it wise not to interfere.

I learned later that a guy on his way out to smoke, who must have been a.) forgetful, b.) blind drunk, or c.) just blind, smacked into the door at full stride. Cracked his face right into the window. Must have looked great from the other side where Jeff and the guys were standing. He made a funny face and everything. Stood there stunned for a few seconds. It was a scene from a slapstick movie come true.

Naturally, Jeff and the guys later claimed they were laughing with, not at, the hapless gentleman. Seems reasonable. I’ll concede, however, that probably the bouncers and the bartender and the drinkers inside and certainly the friends the guy came with were laughing at him.

Whatever his motivation, the guy then opened the door, stepped outside, hopped the short gate between the patio and the sidewalk, and scurried away. I presume he had that smoke somewhere further down the street where it was quieter.

29
Nov
05

Girls, Girls, Girls

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: New York Minute, People We Don't Like and Strangers Observed
Tags:

Anyone who knows teenage girls knows that one of them may, at times, be a challenge. A group of 30, however, is an unstoppable force of nature.

The F train starts out so crowded in Queens that, by the time we hit midtown, I’m grateful for a chance to sit down and stretch out and read as the train deposits its cargo of workers along its southward path. But all that ended abruptly this morning when what I assume was a school group entered at 34th or 23rd Street. Before the doors opened, I could hear a loud roar out in the echoing subway platform. The doors slid open, and a deluge of sound and teenage girls burst forth into the train, filling it instantly.

An amalgam of scented hair product vapors was released into the air, their mild toxins mixing invisibly but undeniably. And I was suddenly scrunched up again, making myself as small as possible and sitting bolt upright — but not against business suits and khakis anymore. This time I was avoiding contact — at all costs — with body-hugging velour track suits (They can wear those things at school?), small-waisted jean jackets, steering-wheel sized hoop earrings, rhinestone-studded belts and teased, crimped hair.

It was an assault on every human sensation, most notably the ears. Together, as if it were a personal goal, they achieved a tremendous volume. Each of their voices augmented the other, and the train car was an impenetrable cacophony.

With each balance-throwing rock of the train carraige, there was a sudden shift of teenage bodies and a rush of giggles. There was a conversation about a boy here, someone’s outfit there, and bursts of laughter all around. Some of them clicked their long fingernails against their cellphone keypads and bleeped.

And they never stopped moving. It was like being trapped in an animated diagram of what happens to mashed potato molecules when microwaves hit them.

I had no choice but to sit and stare and observe. I began to see them as creatures acting as a collective. The actions of a single ant don’t amount to much, but the actions of a colony are really count. It seemed to be these girls’ primary function to make noise (Were they making words or just noise?) and to raise the temperature of the car with their constant motion.

There were two young women in front of me, both in head-to-toe velour; one in pink, one in beige. All curves were revealed. I had no idea girls their age were shaped that way. It was impossible not to look. No matter where my eyes landed on them, I felt dirty. I felt as if I should explain to them: I’m really not interested; you’re just standing so close…

When a woman escaped at West 4th Street, a seat opened up next to me, and the velour twins became human once again. One sat down in the empty seat and, taking her friend’s hand, she drew her near and pulled her down so she was sitting on her lap. It seemed the most unremarkable thing to them. They continued their conversation without interruption. No where else to go, so why not sit on my lap, eh? They were 14. They were friends. They were, simply, girls. And I was no longer annoyed.

You’d never catch teenage boys doing this. Not the straight ones, anyway. And not on the F train. I wondered which one was heavier. Is this one always on top, or do they switch sometimes? Are they sisters? girlfriends? Then I realized that each probably weighed 90 pounds soaking wet, and it was probably much like holding a large purse or backpack on one’s lap.

We hit Broadway/Lafayette, and the doors parted, and I swear we all had to catch our breath from the vacuum created by the mass exit. The squawking did not stop so much as simply shift from one space to another. The doors closed, and again I heard the high rumble of the girls’ voices. Dust settled. The eddies of swirling newspapers and empty coffee cups died down. The train lurched forward. And we were soon in relative silence.

The other passengers were left dazed and bewildered. There were maybe a dozen people left on the train — all happy, I’m sure, to be left with a place to sit and room to breathe. We resumed staring forward. The sudden quietude was eerie. Lonely. Cold.

26
Nov
05

New York Lesson No. 327: Chinatown Bus

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: New York Lessons
Tags: ,

The Chinatown bus is the best travel deal between major East Coast cities. The network runs from Chinatown to Chinatown among the cities of Boston, New York, Washington and Philadelphia — and it’s dirt cheap. It’s managed by some smart, industrious, and I have to believe successful Chinese immigrants. I made a round trip from New York to Boston this week for $30.

It worked out rather nicely. Chinatown bus vets have told me stories of varying degrees of quality. Sometimes the bus is dirty or stinky. Sometimes it’s too hot or cold. I had been warned once to expect an authentic Third World experience, but I didn’t care much about comforts. I was more interested in the price tag, and I planned to sleep on board anyway. It’s not as if this was some gritty and dusty old school bus where passengers vie for space among children with dirt-smudged faces and crates of live chickens. It’s a regular coach with soft seats and overhead lights and heat. I have no complaints.

There are certain charming qualities of the service you might not find on regular bus companies. For one, the moment you step on board, the driver shouts at you, “Please sit! Sit down! Sit down now!” and honks the horn. Similarly, when the bus arrives, the driver honks and shouts, “Hurry! Get out now!” And we can always count on the mandatory stop at Roy Rogers in Manchester, CT. My friend Henry is convinced Fung Wah gets a kickback from them for delivering so much business. Maybe. I’m intrigued by their DIY system, but honestly, I’d rather have them assemble my lettuce and tomato and pickles for me. There’s a certain pretense with trying to make fast food “nice.” Let’s not pretend, folks.

14
Nov
05

I Still Don’t Remember Her Name

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: Minneapolis, Nostalgia, People We Like and Sad
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In downtown Minneapolis, there is a parking garage at 9th Street and La Salle that looks like it will collapse at any minute. I called it the House of Cards Ramp, but it was cheap and close to The Saloon, where I was most likely to be found on a weekend evening, so I parked there often.

After a certain hour, the parking attendant no longer took money by hand, and drunk drivers were forced to insert dollars and quarters into a machine that controlled the exit arm. (Many times have I received an annoying 68 quarters after inserting a $20 bill.) The attendant was still on duty at this time, but hiding out in the little office, and he would only come out when the machine malfunctioned and the drivers were making enough of a fuss about it.

One night, a new person had started working the booth. She should have been a librarian or a high school hall monitor. She was a largeish woman, shaped somewhat like “Martha Dumptruck” from Heathers. She was probably in her mid-30s. She had large plastic-frame glasses, curly hair, a penchant for wearing pink sweaters, and such a pleasant and sweet demeanor that I wondered how long she would last at this particular job.

She was the sweetest thing, always saying hello and good-bye, efficiently counting my change and dropping the coins smartly into my palm. She was a little too nice sometimes, and not at all helpful usually. But somehow, when there was a problem with the after-hours machine, and the cars were lining up behind me expectantly, and she’d stand outside of my door encouraging me simply to try it again, try it again, try it again, the extra attention was always charming and reassuring.

She began to recognize me after a few weeks. She always made me smile on my way out of the House of Cards Ramp, no matter what drama I was escaping at the Saloon. It was fun to be just a little bit flirtatious with her. And one night I asked her for her name. I saw her so often, I said, I might as well know what it is.

I told her mine. And she told me hers.

And I promptly forgot it.

I always felt bad for her, having to deal with all the drunk homos pouring out of that ramp every night. Some people were downright rude to her. And it was beginning to show in her expression. So, I determined to be The Nice Guy.

The next time I saw her, I apologized. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but can you tell me again what your name is?”

She told me again.

The next time I saw her, I was excited to call her by her first name. But to my acute embarrassment, I realized I had forgotten it again. I played it cool. I didn’t use her name, nor did I ask for it again. I just tried to forget about the whole thing.

Over the months, her attitude began to change. She stopped smiling. She stopped talking. She would give me my change without looking up. When the machine malfunctioned, she would not come out and “help” anymore.

The job was getting to her. It was dragging her down. I tried my Nice Guy thing again and asked her for her name one night. She looked up at me, screwed up her mouth, cocked her head to the side, narrowed her eyes and did not answer me. You’ve got to be kidding me, that look said. I recoiled. The smile dropped from my face. I sat back in my seat, and I drove forward.

She had been transformed from a trusting, friendly, kind-hearted school nurse into a heartless, jaded downtown parking attendant. She was meaner than the men who worked there. I felt even worse about her situation and tried to be nice to her — until she started being rude to me.

Sometimes I wouldn’t have three dollar bills, and I’d have to give her a $10 or a $20. And she’d sigh heavily and avoid eye contact, throw open her drawer, and slap down the dollar bills. And I’d have to reach out of the car and grab for it myself. I’d drive away without comment, but strangely my feelings would be hurt.

Then the price went up to $3.50, and I always seemed to forget it. (After years of $3, $3, $3, you think you can count on something.) I’d hand her $3. At least it was correct change, right? And she’d look at me, thrust out her hand, and jab it forward a few times emphatically.

“Three fifty!” she’d bark.

And she’d jog my memory. “Ope! I’m sorry!” I’d say in that in-line-at-the-grocery-store voice. “I forgot again…”

And she would sit there, scowling and thrusting her hand again. I was flabbergasted. It was like being falsely accused of stealing. Maybe she thought I was teasing her. Whatever. I’d drop the precious 50 cents into her palm, and she’d let me be on my way.

She never got better. Sometimes she wouldn’t even shout “three fifty!,” but she’d just stare at me, waving that fucking hand of hers. One time when I forgot the 50 cents and she gave me that attitude, I lost it.

“Look! Calm down! I’m not trying to give you a hard time! I. Just. Forgot.”

But she never cracked that stony exterior. I never saw that nice lady in the pink sweater again. She had became The Raving Bitch of the House of Cards Ramp. That was her official title. We referred to her as The Bitch for short. My friends and I grew to hate her. There was always an edge of sadness to the stories we would make up about her as we drove away, because I remembered how she used to be. But she had lumped me in with the rude idiots who park in that ramp. She mistook my forgetfulness for intentional troublemaking. Before long, her attitude was justified.

I still don’t know her name. Maybe if I’d remembered those years ago, I’d have been able to maintain that small bridge to her kinder side.

08
Nov
05

There Was a Crooked Man

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: The People in Your Neighborhood

Remember that nursery rhyme? There’s one such man in the neighborhood where I work. Rather than the crooked mile of the nursery rhyme, I see him every couple of weeks walking the gentle curve of Clinton Street.

He’s not merely hunched over. He’s bent 90 degrees at the waist, his arms pinned behind his back, his hands clutching a collection of plastic grocery bags filled with something or other, bouncing along against his thighs with every step. He does not look up. All he seems to see is the ground just a few feet in front of him. He wears a dark gray, slightly tattered suit. His hair is gray and frizzy, and he has a longish salt-and-pepper beard. I have no idea what his face looks like, but his skin looks like it gets too much sun. Usually he just wanders here and there. He is always alone.

Walking back to the office from another late-afternoon coffee break, and enjoying the unseasonably warm mid-autumn weather, I saw him again today. I used to think of him as just another eccentricity of the Lower East Side. There are so many. But today I was alarmed to see that there was something more to him than I had assumed. Today, he was drooling.

Great copious amounts of saliva were pouring from his mouth. Maybe his nose. I couldn’t tell, and I’m not sure it mattered. He was walking in front of me, and we were headed in opposite directions. As we neared each other, I could hear him making a sound. He wasn’t speaking, as far as I could tell. With each step forward, his torso, bobbing from the motion, pushed short bursts of air out of his lungs, creating a sort of rhythmic moaning. His drooling, of course, followed the same rhythm. He was flowing all over the sidewalk in front of him in an unbroken stream. It was extraordinary.

I wondered if he was uncomfortable. Would he appreciate a Kleenex at that moment? Was he sick? Was he crazy? Was his back severely damaged or deformed? or did he walk this way by choice? I could tell he had some groceries in his bag — so clearly just recently he had interacted with someone to make a purchase. Unless he was carrying it from wherever he lived. How might it be to talk to this guy, I wondered. How does he get the money to the cashier if he can’t stand up straight? How lonely he must be. Lonely and covered in his own spit.

There’s a crooked woman in the neighborhood where I live. I see her a couple mornings every week on my way to the 7 train. She routinely takes her life in her hands by standing in the middle of 82nd Street. She stands there, her face buried in her sweater, clutching an extra-large Duane Reader bag stuffed with something or other. usually her head is covered by a hood, so she has no peripheral vision. Drivers will slow their vehicles on approach and
carefully pass around her. Sometimes, she’s walking slowly down the middle of the street, making it a harder to judge clearance.

Sometimes I see her standing in the elevated train station. She has no apparent intention of passing through the turnstile and boarding the train, but she is safe at least and away from passing cars.

She looks intensely unhappy. Her face is constantly screwed up as if she just ate a spoonful of earwax. I can’t imagine what she is up to.

I wonder if someone takes care of these people and whether they’re homeless. If so, how do they survive? When I see them, is it because they’ve wandered away from a safer place? or are they always unsafe and alone in the world?

03
Nov
05

Holey Leggings, Batman!

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: Health and Sports
Tags: ,

I’ve been in physical therapy for about a month now because of a rugby injury. I developed plantar fasciitis in my right foot early in the season. Like a lame-ass I hurt myself at practice — not even in the heat of a real match. Still, it hurts like a bitch, making walking difficult and running impossible at times — highly inconducive to a bipedal creatures such as myself, let alone rugby.

There are some real characters in a physical therapy office. And some ugly feet. I count myself lucky, having relatively clean, minorly caloused hooves. I apologized once, and the guy who gives me my deep-tissue foot massage every session said, “Heh heh heh … Dude, you have no-o-o-o idea.”

There was a woman at the office tonight who I had never seen before. And for our first meeting, I saw far more of her than I had ever hoped to. Far more than I wanted to. This is because the leggings she wore were so worn down in the inner and anterior thigh that square inches of bare skin were showing through. This was not like a run in a stocking or a transparent, threadbare t-shirt. This was years of thigh rubbing thigh and butt rubbing bicycle seat.

My first reaction was something like: “Um, I don’t need to see that!” [think Valerie Cherish] “But, well, I also don’t need to look. And clearly she doesn’t care. Unless she doesn’t know. But how could she not know?”

I mean, the updraft must have been mighty real.

I regarded her on a stationary bike, those gams of hers lifting up and pushing down, the exposed flesh quivering like something molded and thawing. It was mesmerizing. Like a car crash. Either she had very little self respect or a whole damn lot of it. I couldn’t decide. And my reaction had nothing to do with her age, which I guessed to be in the ballpark of 50. A younger woman would have looked no better.

I have a ratty old pair of shoes that I can’t seem to get rid of. They cost $4.50 at Payless, where I found them in the women’s section. (Women get such deals at that place! And all the men’s shoes are ugly and fall apart in a month.) These babies have lasted me three years. I keep them on principle. Plus, they’re super cute. Of course, they have holes through the soles. I can’t walk on a wet sidewalk without drenching my socks. And sometimes I keep underpants well past the sell-by date. But these things are covert and unknown to everyone but the drop-off laundry service lady. And she can judge me all she wants.

One of the assistants made some crack to the guy who was torturing my foot. He laughed quietly. I felt bad that she was being talked about, albeit quietly, just five yards away. But they weren’t being malicious. Just surprised and sort of startled. We all hoped she would just put some damn pants on. Or a skirt. Or a towel. I could have been a gentleman and offered my warm-up pants.

Nah.

Could you imagine accepting someone else’s pants at the gym?

Hmm… on second thought, that could be quite a pleasant thing.

18
Oct
05

Advice from a Grown-Up

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: New York and Other People's Stories
Tags: , , ,

In order to fight falling asleep at my desk after lunch today, I walked to the corner store (Do we call them delis in New York? Bodegas?) to get a caffeinated beverage and a bit of chocolate. The scorched coffee from the kitchen downstairs doesn’t do anything for me but make me sweaty and fidgety. These days, I’m on to Coke Zero, which is discernably better, in my opinion, than Diet Coke.

On the way to the store, I walked behind a little boy, maybe 9 or 10 years old, walking home from school, accompanied by a man and a woman. He was dressed nicely in a red sweatshirt and clean but trendy blue jeans. And he had some kind of funky (probably basketball) shoes on, like every kid in this pocket of the Lower East Side. What caught my attention was the way he walked. He rose up on the balls of his feet before lifting them every time he took a step. And his heels were turned inward just slightly. It was a distinctive gait, and it struck me as somewhat cocky. I wondered if he’d grow up to be a bruiser or a softie.

He was telling a story about something relatively dramatic that happened at school that day. Some trouble he found himself in. Or some sort of conflict with another kid in his class. I couldn’t make it out.

The woman responded by saying, “Stop that kind of talk. That only gets you locked up and in a lot of touble over nothing.” She had a remarkably hoarse voice. I laughed to myself that this woman should remind me of Harvey Fierstein. She would not appreciate my saying so, I’m sure.

I was instantly curious about what he had done. Had the kid talked back to a teacher and gotten reprimanded? It was good of her to guide him, but I was sort of alarmed at the early-childhood notion of being locked up.

I supposed she was an aunt or a friend of his parents. I couldn’t imagine (or maybe I did not want to imagine) that she was his mother.

The boy said something about another kid kicking him in the back. The woman interrupted and rasped, “So then you turn around and kick him back. That’s what you do!”

Act, don’t talk, basically. And take care of it yourself. It’s different from what I was told in similar situations at that age. I had a git reaction against what she said, and immediately judged her to be a bad influence. I imagined him ruined by his mid-teens. Fighting all the time. In trouble at school. But is it really such bad advice? It might be appropriate for this neighborhood. And who could prepare him for the world any better than this woman, who has evidently seen some of the underbelly of life?

11
Oct
05

Tóqueme

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: Me and Strangers Observed
Tags: ,

It seems to be ingrained in our upbringing that we are not to touch people who are neither family nor friends. Lately I’ve been considering how much of our time we spend not only not touching people, but in fact assiduously avoiding touching people.

(Obviously I’m speaking for myself, but I think this applies to American society at large, so I’ll use generalizations.)

Closeness is a fact of life in a city such as New York. On public transit, especially. We all tend to stop moving when we’re close. We make ourselves small and shut ourselves down. We concentrate on a book. We fade into our iPods. We stare at the floor, the ads, the biceps of the guy standing next to us… If someone touches our foot with their foot, they immediately pull it back and apologize. If someone leans in to check the subway map, we shift to avoid them touching us.

It feels like politeness. It looks like politeness. But I think there’s something else there. It seems protective — or defensive. Motivated by Fear? Disapproval? Disgust? Where some folks are concerned, yes, definitely, all of the above. But for the run-of-the-mill strap-hanger, what gives? Is it that famous American spirit of independence we’re always congratulating ourselves on? There’s a sort of coldness in this avoidance of contact, this willful ignorance of everyone around us. It’s sort of sad and lonely. Solitary. Isolationist.

Usually when someone presses against me, I move to accommodate them if I can. But sometimes when there’s an accidental connection, I like to not move — to feel the heat of someone else’s leg through their pants and yours — just to see what happens. It can be kind of exciting. Accidental intimacy. This person would not touch me on purpose, but here we are trading body heat. And who’s the one not pulling away? Me or her?

Sometimes when I’m gripping a pole in the subway car, and someone leans their body against the pole and covers my fingers with their back or their arm, I’ll leave my hand there. I want them to feel that I’m there, that I can’t be erased, and that if they’re uncomfortable, they can move back, but I’m staying put. Sometimes I swear they just don’t feel me there.

It’s my experience that co-workers are especially careful not to touch each other. When we do touch, it feels weird to me. It sounds little alarms in my head. Handshakes? Fine. They’re supposed to happen. I don’t even think about them. But if someone puts a hand on my shoulder — whoah! If someone returns a dollar they borrowed at lunch time, and their hand touches mine — eek! If someone puts their hand on my arm when they’re talking to me — ooh, I could just shudder. And if someone removes a piece of lint from my cheek … I dare not continune.

There was a guy I used to work with who, every once in a while, would give my back a pat or very briefly rub a shoulder or even put an arm around me. It always totally arrested me, a reaction I think (I hope!) is imperceptible. A second later, though, I calm myself. No big deal. Actually, this is kind of nice.

He’s straight. It never occurred to me to take it as anything other than what it appeared to be. Why should I? He thought nothing of it. It was natural and unplanned and meaningless to him. But to me it signified so much more.

I’ve noticed that straight guys communicate with other straight guys with touch like gay guys communicate through touch, but in different ways. Watch straight guys at the bar. Watch them in front of Monday Night Football on TV. Watch them wrestle each other for no reason.

When this guy would touch me in any way other than a handshake, it felt like he was doing something highly unusual. Not wrong or even uncomfortable — just vaguely alarming. Maybe I’ve grown to see that sort of touch as a signal of something else, and when’t not actually, my brain spins a couple times. I don’t know.

All I know is it would wake me up. Every single time it underscored how little I touch the people around me every day — familiar people; friends. I’m always there, but I’m never there. And those meaningless gestures encourage me not to be afraid to hug someone, slap someone on the back, touch someone’s face, touch someone’s arm, grab someone by the back of the neck — whatever.

08
Oct
05

A Quarter Pounder and four Chicken McNuggets

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: Food, Other People's Stories and Theater
Tags: ,

It’s not every day a ticket to a major award-winning Broadway show — with the original cast — falls into your lap. It’s never happened to me. My husband bought tickets to see Bernadette Peters in Annie Get Your Gun for my birthday a few years ago. By the time our show date came around, Peters had left the cast and been replaced with none other than Cheryl Ladd. It was a fine show, but I feel compelled to point out that anything Bernadette Peters can do, Cheryl Ladd cannot do better.

Last week a friend of mine, who will remain unidentified, bought a front-row seat to Spamalot from a colleague for $30, a considerable bargain for an off-Broadway show, let alone a ticket worth … what was it? … $240 or something? She had a scheduling conflict, apparently, the poor thing. So, hooray for my friend.

The social conventions of tourism being what they are, it’s reasonable to expect that much of the audience of any given show will be wearing t-shirts and blue jeans. There’s a certain casualness about a night out on the town these days. That’s fine. It’s Spamalot, not the La Traviata. But there are certain things I would not recommend doing in the front row at a major Broadway production.

For example: Eating a Quarter Pounder and a four-piece Chicken McNugget during the show!

However, this is precisely what my friend did. He didn’t have time to eat before the show, and apparently, he didn’t want to wait until intermission to eat a cold hamburger.

After being roundly admonished for this, he tried to defend himself.

No one knew! he said.

He described to us how he ripped the burger up into pieces in its package inside his backpack and only extracted one bite-sized morsel at a time. I give him credit for discretion, but the fact remains: He was chowing down on fast food in the front row in plain view of hundreds of people and the actors on stage.

Besides that, didn’t someone smell it? Someone in the front row must have been wondering where the scent of grilled beef and fried chicken was coming from in the first act.

I mean, even Spam is mostly pork, so it couldn’t have been a special effect for the show!

But no one smelled it! he said.

I’m not so sure. McDonald’s has a distinctive odor. It’ll stink up a subway car. I can tell from down the hall if someone has a McDonald’s take-out at lunch time.

He told us that David Hyde Pierce looked at him during the performance. I don’t doubt it. Maybe he was amused by my friend — or maybe he was just hungry. (“Are you finished with that?”)

I can just imagine him on a talk show or in a magazine interview talking in his clipped, erudite way about memorable moments from the run of the show.

“… Yes, and believe it or not, there was a guy one night in the front row who had brought McDonald’s to the show. And he actually ate it during the show …”

Not a bad deal for my friend. Cheap and easy notoriety for less than $5.

26
Sep
05

Old Lady at Fine Fare

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: New York
Tags: ,

In the rush to leave the apartment, I didn’t have any time to get anything for breakfast. All I wanted was something small. A couple pieces of fruit. Whatever. So I dropped my bag in my office and headed back out to a fruit stand nearby. I love stopping there at lunch time, spending less than a dollar, and walking away with a handful. I decided I’d get a nectarine and a banana. Seventy-five cents. Easy.

When I got to the corner, the fruit stand was missing. Do fruit stand guys get the day off? I ducked into the grocery store a few doors down.

I grabbed a nectarine and a red plum, and going against my better judgment, I went to the other end of the store in search of a Red Bull or something to wake myself up. On the way there, I passed by the cookies and began browsing. I briefly considered picking up a package of fig newtons, but the bag was not resealable, and I didn’t want them to go stale in my desk, so I stashed it back on the shelf, admonished myself for even considering it, and began to walk off. At that moment, I crossed paths with a tiny old lady who seemed to be mumbling to me.

Her untamed hair was dark gray with a few leftover spots of auburn from the last unsuccessful die job, which, by the look of it, had been several months ago. She stood up straight but was quite small, the top of her head maybe reaching my chest. She wore a fur-like coat that a younger woman would have found far too warm on a 75° September morning. And around her waist was wrapped a wide sort of scarf tied at her side. It looked like the knotted sash of a geisha, but crossed with a quilted ironing board pad.

“Huh?” I said, stopping and leaning in closer, not entirely sure if she was talking to me or to herself. It looked like she was asking a question — something about the cookies. I looked at her, expectant, willing to hear it.

“Eh, do you speak English?” she asked. (Ah! New York!)

“Yeah,” I said, dumbly. As if this one syllable proved it.

“Excuse me, can you tell me if there is anything just plain here? I don’t want any flavor. I just want plain. What are those?”

She pointed at the package I had just put back, which was near a stack of strawberry-filled cookies.

“Oh, strawberries,” she continued. “I can’t have strawberries. That’s too much. Too sweet.”

I was charmed by her accent, which my Midwestern suburban upbringing allows me to describe no better than “little old Lower East Side Jewish lady.”

I scanned the shelves for something plain. I picked up a package of vanilla sandwich cookies.

“Do those have eggs? Milk? I don’t want eggs or milk. Just nothing in them. I need plain. I can never find the plain ones.”

I wondered if my striped shirt made me look like I worked there. My friend Richard once told me it made me look like a Young Republican. I supposed there wasn’t much further to go before I passed “caddy” and hit “grocery store manager.”

“I suppose you’re in a big hurry,” she said.

“Well, yeah,” I stammered. “Kinda.”

“Can you just read me the label? I can’t read the label. Can you just read the label and tell me if there’s anything plain? Just plain. No milk, no eggs or nothing.”

I turned over the package and began looking through the ingredients. I myself was surprised to find no milk. No eggs. Just a bunch of sugars, oils and various unpronouncables.

“This one is plain,” I reported. “No milk or eggs. Nothing. It’s safe. It’s vanilla flavored. Is that OK?”

I handed her the package for her to examine. She put it back on the shelf.

“Thanks. I have to check it out with someone who works here. Maybe they’ll know.”

I grabbed another package. Sugar wafers or something. The plainest thing I could think of.

“What about this one?” I said.

“What’s in it?” she demanded. “I have to my goddamn breakfast, and I can never find anything plain,” she said.

Ooh! — she has a mouth on her, I thought.

“Um… vegetable oils… sugar… flavoring,” I said, reading the label. “No milk or eggs.” What was I doing here?

“Hmm. Well. Thank you,” she said. “I need to find the manager or someone. I have to find something plain, and I can never find anything. And I have to have my goddamn breakfast. I can never find anyone who works here.” She put down the sugar wafers and walked off, Yoda-like, continuing to talk, with no one listening.

I was annoyed that she didn’t trust me. But whatever. It was too much for me to take on at the moment to find this lady something edible. I had to get to work, and had already taken far too long. Seeing no Red Bull in the beverage aisle, I made a bee-line to the checkout. I felt ridiculous buying only a plum and a nectarine.

I saw the lady down the aisle as I approached the register. I slowed my pace to avoid her, and she passed safely onward. As I entered the checkout lane, I saw her talking to someone who evidently really did work there. I set my two items on the conveyor belt.

Then she entered the lane behind me.

She weakly maneuvered her cart into the aisle, snagging the corner on a stack of hand baskets. I pushed them out of the way with my foot, or she’d never get past. Looking up at me she said, “Can you help me with these things? This milk is so damn heavy. It gets me every time, this milk.”

The cart contained a cylindrical container of oatmeal, two yogurt cups and a quart of milk.

No plain cookies.

I emptied her cart for her.

“I don’t like this place,” she said. “Everyone’s always in such a hurry. No one knows anything. I was asking him over there to help me find something, and he didn’t know where anything was. I don’t even think he spoke English. I said do you work here or not? And then he ran away. Such a damn hurry.”

I smiled at her, wishing the cashier would hurry.

“Most of the cashiers are mean, but this one is a nice one. I know the cashiers by their number.”

I glanced up at the cashier, who was studiously ignoring the woman.

“Sometimes they change lanes, but I know which ones I like,” she continued. “This one here is nice.” She gestured to the cashier sho was ringing up my fruit.

“Do you hear what I’m saying, señorita?” she called out, overpronouncing señorita and saying it too loudly. “Eh?”

After a pause, the cashier answered back, “Yes. You’re talking about cashiers.” She had heard this one before.

“When you leave here, which way do you go?” the little old lady asked me.

Not sure what she was asking or what she wanted, I told her I would turn right when I left the store.

“Oh! Can you help me to my building? This damn milk is too heavy. It’s very close. I’m just up the street. I hate coming to this place. Usually I go to my other place, but sometimes I come here because it’s closer. You can just walk me to the door maybe.”

How could I say no? She couldn’t lift a quart of milk. I wondered how she normally manages her groceries.

“Sure, I can walk you,” I said, hoping it was indeed quite close.

I paid for my produce ($1.04 — a remarkable sum for two small pieces of fruit) and watched as the cashier expediently rang up the four items. The old woman slowly fished a 20 out of her pocket book and extended it to the cashier, who had already counted out her change. She counted it back to her out loud. The old woman counted it again, slowly, deliberately, before restoring it to her purse. “I always have to count my change,” she announced.

Meanwhile, another woman packed the items into two doubled-up bags. Four plastic bags for four items!

Instead of continuing through the lane to leave the store, the woman leaned in and tried to strike up a conversation with the cashier, who dutifully went on about her business. I don’t even know what the woman was saying. I considered leaving. Had she forgotten that she asked me for help? That I was sort of in a hurry?

The cashier looked up nervously at me, a perfect stranger all but looming over a tiny old woman. I felt like I should explain that I was not waiting to jump her and take her money.

The nudging of the person behind her and the movement of the conveyor belt sort of ushered her along, and she gave up and moved on. Seeing me, she snapped back to attention and saw that I was holding her bags already, anxious to go.

“Ooh, don’t get your bag mixed up with mine,” she said. “I’m just up here a bit. Maybe you can take me to my door, and I can find someone else to help me.”

Outside, the sun shining through her thin hair, I saw how slow her movements were. I considered her frailty. I looked down at my own body. What a strange contrast. Every weekend I tackle and am tackled by large men in long stockings and rugby shorts. I bleed from the knees and elbows. I bang my head on the hard, packed dirt. My feet and legs ache. But I am young. I can do these things. She struggles with milk.

She stopped suddenly. “Now, I need to ask you something,” she announced. “Do you remember what I did with my change? Did you see me put it back in my wallet?”

“I don’t know if it’s in your wallet,” I said, “but I remember that you got your change and put it in your purse.”

She seemed satisfied.

“I don’t like that place. Too big. I can never find anything. And no one is around to help you. Does anyone work there? That manager is in such a damn hurry.”

I grunted a response. What will I look like when I am old, I wondered. What will I be unable to carry?

Half a block later, mercifully close, she veered along a fence toward the next building. “This is me up here,” she said.

I walked with her to the door. Held it when she opened it. She struggled with her keys. Tried twice before the door clicked open.

“Can you just take it up to the elevator?” she asked.

Fine, whatever. I followed her into the building to the elevator.

“Have you ever been here?”

No.

“You know there’s an exit through here on the other side. You can get back out through that door. Did you know about that door?”

No. I saw the door she was talking about just through the lobby.

“Ah, well now you know. It’s like a shortcut. See, the next time you’re here, you can go out that door as a shortcut instead of going out the way you came in.”

The special door she was talking about was merely the main front entrance. We had come in through the side door. And why would I ever be here again, I thought. I gently set the groceries down on the floor, taking care that nothing tipped over and that she could reach the handles without bending. “Here you go,” I said. “The milk is here. And here is the other stuff.”

“Thank you so much. Oh, that milk is so heavy. Gets me every time. Thank you for taking the time to help me. I can get someone else to help me with this. I’ll wait until someone else comes along to help me.”

“OK, well have a good day,” I said. I turned to walk, waving good-bye as I walked toward the marvelous shortcut door.

She continued talking to me and laughing about something. Some kind of joke, I guess. But I knew better than to stop and listen in. I smiled and let out a short laugh in response.

Thirty minutes and $1.04 to get two pieces of fruit. I waited until I was out of sight before I checked my watch.

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the untallied hours