Sometimes
I wonder about this whole blogging thing and if I’ll continue to find something
to talk about in the months to come. So I was reading the recent post of my
fellow JFP author, Liesel Hill, (http://bit.ly/TTez1w)
and the format gave me an idea, which I will emulate here.
In the vein of Thanksgiving,
I will share with you a story I wrote years ago while living in Manhattan , NYC. This was long before I ever considered
writing for kids; years before I even thought of having children. It was also a
period in my life where gratitude didn’t play such a great part. I was too into
my own world.
Yet, I believe that what
happened was needed to wake me up, to help me realize how lucky I was. It took
years before I got the message though… as you will see.
JUST
A TRUNK
I
saw him out of the corner of my eye as I hurried south on Seventh
Avenue .
Tucked
firmly under my arms, the computer keyboard I had purchased just yesterday was
wrapped in a bag I had accidentally torn.
Such a waste of my time I fumed, storming across 38th Street . I have so many things to do today: clean the
house before Derek comes for dinner tonight, buy groceries, call my parents, do
my wash. And here I am wasting time
because I have to return this dumb keyboard.
Why did that foolish salesperson have to sell me this defective piece of
junk.
I
saw him out of the corner of my eye, through the blurs and shapes of New York 's masses. Traffic had gridlocked, and across the street
I caught a glimpse of his white T-shirt, of a tin can resting on the handle of
a wheelchair, his look of expectancy as he observed the pedestrians scurrying
by. I tore my eyes away from this man
whose hopeful, smiling face contrasted so heavily with his circumstances. My hands felt cold, despite the sun's clammy
heat. I quickened my pace even more,
trying to avoid the hordes of people swarming around me. I wanted to swat them away like flies.
I
knew what I would tell the salesperson when I got there, I knew exactly what I
would say and how I would say it. It's
defective, I would shout and I would glare at him so that he would know just
how angry I was. I want my money
back. End of story.
I
looked back and saw his hopeful expression fixed on the scuffling mob. A tin
can rested on the handle of his wheelchair.
He was black. A man walked by, a
tall, white guy, who threw some coins in the can and continued on without
stopping or even looking down. The man
in the wheelchair, I placed him at about twenty-five, gave him a wide smile of
gratitude, which was never seen.
Today
had started out so well. Until I had
turned on my computer, equipped with its new keyboard, and it still wouldn't
work. All my plans ruined. My day shot.
Penn
Station. One more block, down the stairs
and to the right.
I
would give him $1.00, I told myself.
No. $5.00.
"May
I help you?" a Chinese man with a baseball cap asked, the same guy who had
sold me this defective equipment. I
yanked the keyboard out of the bag, banged it on the counter. My eyes gave full vent to my frustration.
"Yes. I bought this here yesterday. It doesn't work. Here's my receipt."
"No
problem. We'll exchange it for
you."
"Thank
you."
Imagine
being stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of your life, never able to walk or
dance or stand. Never to play sports, to
run, to feel the joy of movement. I
would give him $20.00.
I
tapped my fingers on the counter. What
was taking so long? I turned around and
stared wide-eyed at the grim-faced, dark-complexioned woman glaring wide-eyed
at me out of the full-length, rear-wall mirror.
I looked like I was pouting, I noticed in surprise, and I had this deep
frown on my forehead. I adjusted my
face, forced a smile. My hair needed a
cutting. It was all over my cheeks and
almost touched my neck. Do I have time
to go to the hairdresser today?
"Here
you are ma'am."
"Receipt
please," I said, swinging around.
$20.00. I could afford that. I allowed myself to speculate on his
surprise, his gratitude when he saw...
"Here
you are ma'am."
"Thank
you."
"Come
again."
Right.
I
rushed outside, my new keyboard in its new bag bouncing at my side. 35th
Street . 36th Street . Where had I seen him? I ran a few steps. Stopped.
Ran again. Where was he? I started to cross 37th Street , along with about thirty
other people. The light turned red. A taxi honked. The driver cursed. Suppose he had gone?
Then
I saw him. Sitting in the same spot,
with that same avid look on his face and the same steady flow of pedestrians
darting around him. Several people
placed money in his can. The man grinned
up at them.
I
hurried across 7th Avenue . I could picture his reaction at my
generosity. He would give me a wide
smile, wider than he had given anyone else.
I would say: "You are very welcome," and smile down at him in
a fully non-condescending way. Equal to
equal.
A
man approached him. About the same
age. Same dark color. He stooped to eye level with the man in the
wheelchair. They started talking and
laughing with what appeared to be the ease of long friendship.
Yes. He would look at me with gratitude, and I
would say: "You're welcome."
I
stopped in front of the wheelchair and froze.
The tin can had been welded onto the handle. The man continued laughing and talking with
his friend, unaware of my presence. Both
men appeared relaxed, happy to be in each other's company, stealing a few
moments of camaraderie from Manhattan 's
hustle and bustle. But, how could he
laugh like this? What could a man with
no arms or legs, not even the stubs of arms and legs, possibly be happy
about? How could he laugh in such a
carefree manner with the knowledge that he could never embrace a loved one, be
it man, woman or child?
My
hands trembled as I fumbled with my wallet.
When last had I felt as relaxed or at peace with myself as this man who,
in my mind, had nothing?
"Here,"
I said, waiting.
The
man looked at me. Eyes warm, a deep
brown, held mine. I placed a $1.00 bill
in his can. He nodded and turned back to
his friend.
I
saw him out of the corner of my eye as I made my way up Seventh
Avenue .
Great post and story, Ann Marie! Such a great reminder of those in need during this holiday season and how wrapped up we can all become in the commercialization of it all. Kudos to you. ;)
ReplyDeleteThanks Liesel - It's my first short story, which I felt compelled to write years ago. Glad you enjoyed it.
ReplyDeleteLove your posts. Keep them coming. Always looking forward to reading stories you write:)
ReplyDeleteThank you 'Lotus'. I appreciate your vote of confidence. :)
ReplyDelete