Prose & Comments: A brief encounter, so many unanswered questions…
It was an ordinary day in the city. I was on the 42nd Street shuttle on my way to my accountant, tax time and all that, when it happened, leaving me with so many unanswered questions. And disappointed in myself that I didn’t have enough wit to ask them when I could. But to begin at the beginning …
When I got on the shuttle, which was crowded, a black woman started to get up and give me her seat. Since she was far from young herself, I was surprised, thinking I must look like I’m a hundred. I said, “You worked today, I didn’t. I’m fine.” We smiled at each other and she stayed seated. That’s when it happened.
A tall, well-dressed black man, maybe late 50s, maybe more, standing in the center of the aisle, with one of those very expensive soft leather bags/briefcases slung over his shoulder, looked straight at me and said, with no trace of a southern accent, “You walked with us, didn’t you? So many long years ago.” I was filled with so many different feelings, all at once, that it’s hard to describe what I actually did feel. Real surprise, to begin with; New Yorkers simply don’t speak to each other. It takes a 9/11 for them to do that. And the poetry of that phrase — “So many long years ago.” Who speaks like that!
Confused, I wondered, did I look like someone he knew? Did he mean a particular march? I didn’t think so. And intrigued — where was he coming from? And scared. (I did my internship at New York State Psychiatric Institute. I know who’s out there.) I don’t trust strangers of any color.
In some inchoate effort to gauge where he was coming from, I answered his question with a question. “What makes you think so?” “I know you did, I can always tell,” he said. And then again, “You did, didn’t you?” We were looking right at each other. After a pause, I answered. “Yes. I did.”
Pleased with himself, smiling, he repeated, “I knew it, I can always tell.” He reached into his coat pocket then and pulled out a thick wad of bills, peeled off a twenty, and held it out to me. “Take a taxi when the train stops, to get to your destination,” he said. “I have ample funds,” I answered, “and I’ll be where I’m going. But thank you anyway.” He nodded and put the bills back in his pocket. We exited the train together on the Times Square side and as he walked away, he said, “Have a pleasant rest of your day, Grandmother.” And I replied, “You as well.” We went then in different directions.
It’s true that the Times Square station is a nightmare of organized chaos and noise, streams of people moving in different directions. But I could have stopped him. I could have asked him to step to one side, out of the traffic. Why didn’t I? Who was he? Where did he “walk”? And with whom? Selma? Montgomery? Was he on the bridge? “So many long years ago?” What was it he saw when he looked at me, what was he thinking? Was it the symbolism of the seats? Was there something he saw in our body language, between the seated woman and me? And who carries a wad of bills like that? In their pockets!
But I just kept going, as he did. As the distance between us grew, whatever anxiety I had receded, leaving me disappointed in myself, frustrated and full of unresolved curiosity. Why didn’t I act? I could have. But I didn’t. So I’m left simply with one of those Manhattan moments. They don’t come along all that often, but when they do, they’re indelible.
