Overgrown Tricycle

Today Central Park was bursting into early spring. New Yorkers took advantage of the Sunday for a much-needed return to nature. While walking past the Bethesda Fountain, a man passed me on an overgrown tricycle. The vehicle was a low-rider, and the front tire stretched far out front. Covered in sparkles and streamers, white and pink feather boas trailed behind it. The driver wore a multi-colored top hat, wide sunglasses rimmed with diamonds, and a sequined tuxedo jacket. He rode quickly in a dazzle of color. I turned for another look. A woman wheeling a stroller walked past and smiled at me broadly. The man's eccentricity had brought joy and connection to both of us.

Bobby

Today I rode up in the elevator with Bobby, a medium-set man in his sixties with a shock of white hair plummeting down his forehead. He said he'd lived in this building for 25 years and asked me, in a monotone Forrest Gump voice, "Where are you from?" I replied that I grew up in LA. His face lit up, and he boasted in a little boy voice, "I lived on Ventura Boulevard. I used to set up singles events in LA!" As the door opened to the fifth floor, his eyebrows raised in merriment, "Once I got thrown out of Charlie Chaplin's mansion!" I replied, "I bet you have some great stories to tell." "Yes sirree," he chuckled as he scampered out of the elevator.

Cat Lady

In the basement of my building lives a solo woman with ten cats. When I first met her, she would not talk to me or look me in the eye. Instead, she bent down, talking gently to my dog and carressing his head. These days, occasionally she looks at me, but still she focuses most of her attention on my dog. She never greets me, but goes into raptures about the dog. Occasionally I chide her into saying goodbye. She smells of cigarettes, her apartment dark and crowded with years of living.

Cobbler

The cobbler in my neighborhood works in a cramped, messy little store filled with the accoutrements of his trade: shoes hanging from hooks, old magazines for customers waiting shoeless, leather shoe inserts, piles of shoeshine, a clock that reads an hour behind schedule. You open the door to his world with a rush of church music. Gospel choirs and organ music fill the workshop. The cobbler speaks with an accent reminiscent of Africa. He is old, with graying hair and a stooped walk. He rarely meets your eye, except when he hands you the products of his work. Then he looks up and calls you friend.

Wine and Opera by the Hudson

In my neighborhood there is a man who goes into the Heather Garden in Fort Tryon Park almost every night just before sunset. He has white hair and wears a faded denim shirt falling precipitously over a prominent belly. He heads to the terrace overlooking the Hudson and the Westside Highway, and unpacks his bag: a full bottle of wine and a radio tuned to opera. On warm nights, he brings a lawn chair and enjoys the view from the lawn sloping down to the terrace. He comes alone, but sometimes finds others (drinking beer) on the terrace. I once remarked to a friend, "How sad, he's always drinking alone." My friend's reply, "Maybe he's happy." I hadn't considered that. Maybe he is happy. There are worse things than drinking wine and listening to opera while the sun sets over the Hudson.