I cringed, my nose wrinkling as he punctuated the said statement with yet another angry jab at the horn. My driver appeared far to young to be this bitter. The strain of the city's unceasing traffic reflected in eyebrows so tightly knit, I began to doubt that they had ever looked any different. At once, in my own thoughts in the back seat of a gypsy cab in Long Island...I feel relief. Innate relief. A sigh from somewhere within the inner workings of my heart. And so began a story--his story--but a story nonetheless. Of a life once lived. Of youth now lost. Of love forgotten.
And I listened. And I listened.
I felt the pain of the child who would never know "normal", born into a loveless relationship. I saw a man, struggling to reconcile past aspirations, a man whose religion is defined by how much he's worth. Whose worth is defined by his wealth...quantified in dollar bills and rent checks.
And I listened. And I listened.
It was at that moment that the words came to me. They echoed in my ears and I knew that they were written before they were written.
An hour prior to my return to Philly, I write these words in a small coffeeshop in the East Village (They brew Intelligentcia, you'd be proud) whose mosaic-tiled floors had seen better days. Whose baristas fit the bill. And whose earl gray is particularly strong, if I should say so myself. Perched upon a stool, seated at a round, marble-swirled tabletop, I have a wonderful view at the apex of Twelfth and "A" as Manhattan's characters go about their Wednesday morning.
New York is yet a foreigner to me. Its actors so well versed in a script I don't yet understand. I'm still stumbling over the lines...not quite sure if I truly wish to memorize them, a part of me fearful that in conforming, by default I'd become The Artist or The Waitress, or worse...Girl One (or Two or Ten), a nameless face in this ongoing production. So, I play the part of The Visitor or The Tourist, an outsider reading the faces and examining the nuances, picking apart cryptic smiles and eyebrows tightly knit, for some sort of humanity lost, for loves now forgotten and lives once lived until I'm breathlessly anxious and scared...and I understand how these faces became masks. The city spins at an alarming pace; its inhabitants dizzy and drunk, barely grasping hold of any remaining truth.
And it spins. And it spins.
Then it stops, the constant clamor and clang that flooded my ears and polluted my vision comes to a screeching halt as an April snow, soft and delicate, spirals silently onto the now quiet pavement, as if this is God's way of reminding us that life presses on, that we are all players trying our best in our own way to figure it out. Suddenly, today is perfect in its imperfection. Today, in all of its chaos is perfect, because it isn't, because God wouldn't have it any other way. And I understand that I spend too much of my time in the details, ironing out the creases and folds with careful precision, analyzing every facet. It's okay. For the first time since I came to New York, I'm okay with all of it.
The sunlight is now peaking through faded window shades, casting shadows that dance across paisley-papered walls and faces so deeply engrossed in laptops, books and magazines. Unexpectedly, it is once again a sunny April morning in New York, and that's alright with me.
The gypsy cab driver takes the scenic route to Stonybrook station. Glancing at the time, I'm glad that, for once in my life, I was early.
"How much do I owe you?" I ask my new friend.
"Nothing," He replies, smiling. I return the gesture and offer him a ten. The man, whose religion is defined by how much he's worth and whose worth is defined by his wealth. This man nods once more, smiles, refusing the bill.
"No. I've enjoyed our discussion--best of luck to you, miss." I bury his kindness in my heart, a memory for another time and place. In that moment, his face softened, allowing me a glimpse of a life once lived and a youth...not quite yet forgotten, perfect in all of its imperfections.
