Curbside Book Store

At W181st street the road curves down a steep hill toward the Hudson.  Midway down the hill and across from Cabrini Wines, a Dominican man sells books every day except Sundays and when it rains.  His books always flank the sidewalk in orderly columns, tantalizing me with stories of far off places.  Curbside books stores dot Manhattan, but this one's my favorite.  It's different from the others.  For one, the books are $1 each.  Hard to find a better bargain.  For another, the man sells quality:  Shakespeare, Ibsen, Charlotte Bronte, Gore Vidal, Joseph Conrad.  Most of the other sidewalk booksellers have sold out to mass market NY Times best sellers, the same weepy story packaged under eye catching covers.  But the man peddling Shakespeare on W181st St is my hero of the day.  I can't say what accounts for the difference in inventory-- maybe the population up here feels less pressure to keep up with the Joneses?  Today, the Pooch and I had finished our run (we are geting back into shape-- he laid down and refused to go any farther.  He had put in a good effort so I gave in).  We trudged up 181st.  I had a few dollars in my pocket destined for the bookseller.  While Pooch panted for dear life, I bought two books by Graham Greene, "Songlines" by Bruce Chatwin, and "The Year of Living Dangerously" by Christopher Koch.  Now we will go into the Heather Garden, find a shady tree, and read until sunset.  I can't think of a better way to spend a Saturday. 

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.