They say the neon lights are bright
On Broadway
They say there's always magic in the air
But when you're walkin' down the street
and you ain't had enough to eat
The glitter rubs right off and you're nowhere
Before I reach Broadway from the 71st Street, I pass a large pile of discarded furniture. Our apartment is fully furnished by now, owing largely to Craigslist and people succumbing to my Eastern European accent (I believe that many of them associate it with hard-work and poverty). But I still find myself scanning the heap for what other people don’t want anymore, hoping to find the perfect dresser or a bar stool. Not surprisingly, the pile consists largely of plastic IKEA containers and a sturdy table with a broken leg. Before I can even start ruminating about how I could put the table on the scooter platform and transfer it to our apartment for further inspection, I hear a sharp siren. It could be a fire in a run-down Harlem basement, or it could be President attending the U.N. General Assembly. I take is as a sign of fate and abandon my almost adopted cripple table.
On the sidewalk, I dodge a woman carrying a large Blue-and-yellow Macaw on her shoulder. I met them once before in Gigi Café across the street. She was typing out a message on her silver-clad iPhone, while the Ara was munching on an organic cookie. Later on, I posted their picture (which I secretly took on that occasion) on my Facebook wall, captioned, “Dogs are not allowed in cafés”. In any case, the parrot seems to be accustomed to eating out and socializing.
Two blocks further north, an irresistibly sweet smell is coming from Mr. Softee’s van. A pair of five-year-old twins, sporting oversize orange helmets are leaning over their pink Lilliput scooters, and ordering ice cream for their Nanny, a stout woman of the Carribeans. I recognize them, too. I saw them once whizzing down the slope to the Riverside Park, with their Dad pretty relaxed about their safety. If helmets were obligatory, the two of them would have been young delinquents. The big helmets look shiny and new, apparently the same wise Dad bought them with the aim that the heads would grow into the size of the helmets. The whole purchase was probably preceded by some sort of accident, I assume.
The street book vendors are covering their stalls with plastic foil. A storm is coming to sweep through Broadway. The books always stay covered like this overnight. I wonder if the theft rate here is higher than in the New York Public Library. It is kind of funny, though, to see that nobody cares to steal books. I find myself thinking that there is essentially something wrong about it.
At the 72nd subway station, an impromptu brass band is playing Fly me to the Moon by Frankie Sinatra. The first raindrops slide down their instruments as they finish the song with a grandiose trumpet solo. A small crowd of commuters then gives them an enthusiastic applause. I peep into the trombone case, which serves as their piggy-bank. Not more than twenty dollars for six people. A street musician’s job is a hard-earned one.
On Broadway and the 76th street, a youth is sitting with his back to the Chase bank, shielded by the scaffolding (remember their advertisement, whenever there’s a scaffolding, we are under it?). ANYTHING HELPS, says the boy’s cardboard sign, attached on his worn-out backpack. A frappuccino Starbucks cup is almost full of small change and one-dollar bills. The boy looks not more than twenty; maybe a student who ended up broke in the big city. He has dozed off, and his messy hair looks like he hasn’t had a shower for a few days. When he wakes up, I hope he’ll appreciate the hospitality of Manhattanites. I leave an apple by his side, a Christian gesture with a tinge of faith in good Karma. Frankly, I hate beggars. There is nothing more absurd then asking people money for not doing anything. But sometimes I make an exception, aware that things which are beyond our control do sometimes happen.
It is raining for real now. Water is spattering from the sides of the scooter tyres. Before I reach the 87th street, I have brown spots all over my light-blue pants. But it doesn’t really matter. I am heading to an ‘arts exploration project’ by New York Cares with seniors from the Kateri Residence. Ridden by osteoporosis, many of them can barely hold a paintbrush; some unintentional smudges on clothes are therefore expected. Before I turn into the 87th street, past a falafel stand, a large rat skitters out from underneath the counter. I almost run over it. The second it passes through my vision, my heart stops. I have bought kebab here before. I will never, ever doing it again. Never ever again. Not for a thousand smiles from the Middle Eastern vendor, who always asks me how I am with an almost genuine interest. In a city where lunches can take as little as five minutes, he is the ultimate master of double talk. Falafel never takes long to prepare. What takes long is the time between when I pay and he seeks the correct change. It usually takes a complete conversation about any random topic, such as the last one about the best winter Olympic Games. I was about to say something about my recent trip to Lake Placid, but then realized that the vendor was a smart guy. I had on a T-shirt from Lake Placid, commemorating the 1980 Olympic Games. Well played, Mr. Mohammed. But still, I hope the rat was not your pet.
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