Rose Man

The Rose Man has disappeared from the corner of W178th and Ft. Washington. It happened during winter, when the icy winds blustered up, down, and around the streets of Washington Heights. Gone is the shopping cart that used to greet me with a rainbow of flowers on Friday afternoons. Gone are the long stemmed roses that he carefully chose with a flourish and a smile. Gone are his cheerful eyes that used to meet mine when he handed over the flowers. A different Rose Man has taken his place. He stands in front of the farmacia latina at W181st St. He also has a shopping cart. But in his cart roses hide amidst carnations. These roses are short-stemmed, pre-wrapped in cellophane with sprays of baby's breath and insignificant fern leaves. He hands over the roses with a smile, but quickly looks down to count the money. Business is business. I miss the old Rose Man.

Keep Me Close

Yesterday on the way to work I walked past an apartment building whose service door was propped open. On the side of the door that normally faces the inside someone had written, "KEEP ME CLOSE", in rough white lettering against a black background. I stopped and looked through the narrow corridor leading inside the building. It was a sunny day. The brightness of the outside contrasting with the shadows of the corridor reminded me of the narrow medieval passageways of Southern Europe. I felt the same wonder as when I visited Italy and Spain, when I had been tempted to stop at every open door and peer into the treasures inside. Then I looked at the door again: KEEP ME CLOSE had a completely different meaning without the final "d". What would have been a statement of exclusion (keep me closed) had been transformed into a welcome: Keep me close, don't let me go.

Fuchsia Skirt

Walking on Cabrini Boulevard sometimes I pass an Indian woman in a full circle fuchsia skirt that hangs to her knees. Black leggings cover the gap between the skirt's hem and the brown boots that slouch below her knees. She wears a boxy wool coat, too big for a frame that doesn't reach five feet. A black felt bowler hat, the kind shown in glossy travel pictures of Ecuador, warms her head. Twin black braids escape the hat and swing along her bent back as she sorts through garbage for recyclables. Last Wednesday beside a tree she stashed two treasures: frying pans, one slightly larger than the other, still usable. A man stopped and eyed them admiringly as if to say, amazing the things people throw away in Manhattan. She interrupted her work and said in Spanish through a smile flashing with gold caps, those are mine. His responding smile betrayed embarrassment. He continued walking, she continued searching.

Good fun

Friday afternoon I poured out of the subway door, full of expectations raised by newscasters predicting a warming pattern for the weekend. The warmth had stubbornly dragged its heals, and I braced myself as I stepped onto the street. Beside me walked a father and his toddler son, packaged in an oversized bubble coat. The toddler pointed across the street and yelled, "Look: Mom!" The father swerved as if caught tramping mud across a freshly clean floor, and directed his eyes to the empty sidewalk across the way. The toddler skipped away, looking over his shoulder and giggling at his gullible father.

Shoveling Snow

The snowstorm that arrived shortly before Christmas left a legacy of ice that has kept supers in my neighborhood busy. Sometimes they have little helpers. The other day, a mother and her young daughter were hard at work dispatching a light dusting, a gift of afternoon flurries. A biting wind whipped off the nearby Hudson, and the mother worked quickly. The little girl, excited with importance, pranced behind her. The girl, dressed head to toe in pink, used her left hand to scrape the sidewalk with a miniature snow shovel. In her right, she held a pink-sequined handbag. She swung it wide, careful not to dirty it with the work at hand.

Native American in Washington Heights

Today, as I waited at the Starbucks outside NY Presbyterian's ER, the man ordering in front of me looked Native American. He had a great mass of straight black hair that stretched in an uninterrupted cascade to his mid-back. He wore a beige leather jacket and leather pants with fringes. Around his neck hung a broad necklace made of white stones (bone?), and his profile resembled Geronimo. He reached into a leather paunch slung around his waist, pulled out a five, and paid for his double latte with soy. Was he the real thing? I once worked on a Navajo reservation, where I would not have doubted (oh the turquoise boulders that the old people wore!). But here in Manhattan, you have to wonder.

RIP

It is sad to write this. Friday, as I was walking down W170th St., I found an impromptu shrine to a young man. It stood in front of one of those behemoths of apartment buildings common to Washington Heights. The wall to the left of the entryway was plastered with photos of the young man, smiling with arms draped around friends. On the ground spluttered veladoras (religious candles) next to a combination of plastic and quickly wilting fresh flowers. Propped against the building was a silver car bumper, every inch covered in signatures with the accompanying inscription: "RIP, bro".

Flowers on Fridays

Yesterday (Friday) I walked home from work for the first time in many weeks. Lately the weather has been cold, and my feet need a break from pounding the pavement. But yesterday the clouds hung low and gray, like a blanket holding in the city's warmth. As I neared George Washington Bridge my steps quickened. I wondered if the Rose Man would be on his corner. There he stood, remembering me after all these weeks. I asked him in Spanish, does he sell roses even during the winter? He said yes, but for fewer hours when it's really cold. Good for me, bad for him, I thought. Now I can buy roses all winter long, but he would freeze. This week, I chose five orange roses and he added a sixth with a flourish. I've become a regular customer.