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two feet to the left and fifteen months in the past
I walk by Penn Station every day on my way home. It’s always crowded, and I always end up having to pause for some dimwit tourist or aggressive New Yorker to walk – undeterred by my wrathful glare – mindlessly across my path. I’m a creature of habit, and a practitioner of a feeble form of pedestrian self-management, and therefore I walk down an imaginary right lane. Always. Even when, at times like rush hour and the space in front of Penn Station is ten-people-thick, it would likely make more sense to veer around them.
Yesterday on a whim, and in hopes of getting home with less aggravation, I changed lanes and stopped short, suddenly overwhelmed.
I remember what time of day it was. I remember the brown skirt. I remember the Dr. Sholls that had given me blisters. I remember the path from the museum to the hotel to the last cocktail. I remember his hand on my leg. I remember how his face looked as he exited the cab. I remembered how heavy the entire island felt as I told the driver to turn back to my apartment. I remember making it all the way to 39th Street before breaking down in the back.
Did you know it works like that? That you can walk the same streets and avenues every day of your life, and never walk over some squares of pavement twice? Who has time to consider that the man who stepped out of that cab and paused was heading to take the Air Train to Newark and cross the Atlantic, and that the lives of two people would be forever adjusted to this moment? Bad things would come but better, different things would follow, new couples would form and they would always know about that visit, the only visit, and the series of events in the months that followed which allowed them to become possibilities.
Of course not. That would be ridiculous. As ridiculous as this bewildered man stepping into your path when you are hurried to get your train. As ridiculous as this cab blocking the bus stop and holding up seventy-five angry commuters, late for dinner. The bus driver lays on his horn; you careen into a passer-by and curse him loudly. And then all of you – that is, all but two of you – step off that square of concrete and never consider it again.
comments (7)
I couldn't follow that. What's ridiculous? How could the island feel heavy? It's under you. I think.
1 | tourist | August 7, 2004 06:40 PM
This is why I read Smitten ... beautifully put.
2 | Robert | August 7, 2004 08:43 PM
what?
blonde moment
joce
3 | jocelyn | August 8, 2004 11:58 AM
Well, I get it. I admire the honesty in your approach. One day, perhaps, I will write about Susan.
4 | Michael | August 8, 2004 11:38 PM
Ah, yes. You remind me of The Beatles with this one, Deb. «In My Life» to be exact: «There are places I remember/ in my life though some have changed/ Some forever not for better/ some have gone and some remain/ All these places have their moments/ with lovers and friends I still can recall/ Some are dead and some are living/ in my life I've loved them all». Moving. The both of you.
Nils
5 | nils | August 9, 2004 07:59 AM
I agree with Robert ... beautifully put
6 | Mark | August 10, 2004 04:28 PM
Happy birthday, Alex.
7 | Anonymous | August 11, 2004 01:34 AM