Today's post is in homage to Ira Glass and will be present in three acts.
Act I.
Wednesday night, I was en route to carelessly and recklessly spend money, when a homeless man on the corner of Madison politely asked me for some. Sitting on an orange crate box, with brimming, brown eyes and a few teeth, I offered to buy him dinner. He chose 6 Dunkin' Donuts which he selected meticulously, and a cherry slurpee. The man behind the counter eyed me suspiciously. I didn't have the courage to join him for his meal. My head was racing and pulsating with anxiety and heavy thoughts.
I returned to my luxurious Upper East Side apartment and cried, for all that I have and for how seldom I take the time to recognize it.
The next day, my friend recognized me as I walked by, and he said "Good day Miss."
Act II.
I spent the long holiday weekend with family in Stonington, CT. Sunday afternoon, alone on the highway, my right front tire popped. Panicking, I pulled into an adjacent parking lot and tried to calm my nerves before proceeding. A woman in a Toyota 4-runner pulled up next to me and offered to help. Michelle had just come from a yoga class, and was about to walk her dog in the nature preserve when she saw me pull in. She had long dark brown hair with some feathers wrapped in. Her legs resembled those of my father in hair quantity. She had just moved back to Stonington from Nothern California on account of her family, "getting older one me."
Michelle taught me how to change a tire, how to jack the car using a solid piece of the car frame (the closer the jack is to the tire, the less high you'll have to go). She taught me to secure the car from rolling on me by wedging pieces of wood behind each back tire. Michelle taught me to reattach the bolts on the tire in a star pattern so as to prevent any lopsidedness.
I've watched others change tires before, and I've certainly heard that anyone is capable of doing the job. I loved that Michelle taught me to change mine. She instructed, I did. Afterward, I took her out for coffee and muffins.
Act III.
The journey home from CT involves two trains. One to New Haven, which is comfortable, well air-conditioned, and seldom full. And one from New Haven to Grand Central, uncomfortable, hot, and always teeming with commuters. A woman boarded the New Haven train, wearing jean shorts, two gray shirts, blonde hair up in a ponytail, and dark sunglasses. She was clearly distressed. She asked the man standing beside us where we were. 5 minutes later, she asked again, 30 seconds later, again. When the man asked if she was alright, she said that her husband had left her aboard the train and disappeared. All of the passengers on the car had watched the woman board the train, no husband in sight. The woman to my right used her hand to motion drinking, and then circled her index finger around her ear, insinuating that the woman was drunk or crazy. The blonde woman asked the man when we'd be in Manhattan, he responded 40 minutes, she asked why it would take so long, and replied that it was because we don't live in france, and trains don't travel 90 Mph. Everyone on the car laughed. At which time the blonde woman began to panic even more. From my peripheral perspective of her face, I could see her eyes squinting and welling with tears. I asked if there was anything I could do, she asked to make a call, first to her husband, who did not pick up, and then to her father, who did. After 5 minutes of repeating the same story of being left in an imaginary chair by her boyfriend, the pantomiming woman took the phone out of the blonde's hands and began speaking to her father. She assured him that his daughter was on a real train, that she was fine, but that someone ought to meet in her Grand Central.
That's what I love about New Yorkers, they're direct and they don't patronize. They'll help you, but they're not going to be fluffy about it.
Pretty soon, a ticket-taker was doing rounds to collect fares for the train. The blonde woman turned to face the window, and pretended not to hear him as he asked for her fare. The six of us around her contributed a dollar to pay for her. As we all dug in our wallets, and passed bills about, I recognized a profound and powerful contrast; the frivolity of paper money, in the face of human kindness.
The blonde woman never thanked or acknowledged how we had helped her, but that was never the point anyway.
There is endless wisdom in kindness.
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