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14 february 2001 |
on being a valentine I never learned her name. I was walking eastward through Greenwich Village a couple of years ago on a gorgeous spring day. And even though I know you're not supposed to, I was looking everywhere but directly in front of me. Mostly up, and around, and at people who caught my eye. It was a good day for paying attention. People were restless after the winter. They were getting wiggly, and wanted to play outside. Loads of people in New York don't pull the blinds or curtains. I guess they figure that they live in New York, and their privacy flew out of the cab somewhere in the Lincoln Tunnel. At three to fifty stories up, they're safe enough from everything but curious onlookers. The big apartment buildings hold little interest to me, all elevators, doormen, and people who air-kiss at parties. They're like forts, hiding the dirty work of soldiers before they hit the battlefield. But the old walkups, now those are something to behold. At five or six stories high, they look more like homes. They're a deep breath right before you start hyperventilating. They don't keep secrets quite as well. It is hard to hide the truth from the bay window of a fourth-floor walkup apartment. I was walking through a nice part of the Village, all brick, hip retail, and a park at the end of the block. People ate, lived, and looked well. They wore fresh haircuts, perfectly seasonal jackets, and walked with their backs straight, as if to compete with surrounding skyscrapers. They were young and unoppressed by their city or their lives. There was comradarie. Everything looked okee-dokee. Until I looked up. She sat in the fourth floor of what was likely a rent-controlled walkup. It was well-preserved but pleasingly worn. Some very cool-looking people mingled outside of the door, but she looked straight at me. I know she did, because I looked straight back at her. She sat, alone. There were no plants, no pets, and no one in sight. It was just her, and she looked sad. Not bored, but lonely. Sometimes you have to look for the difference, but not that day. With any luck, I will grow old, too. So I waved, lightly. Just with my fingers. Her head tilted, and I smiled and waved again. She raised a heavy hand, touched the window, and wiggled her fingers back. Sometimes, I fear being forgotten someday. Forget the roses. Remember to love. |
