The Duel

In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone,
'Neath the halo of a street lamp,
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence

©Simon and Garfunkel - Sounds Of Silence

We construct a narrative for ourselves, and that's the thread that we follow from one day to the next. People who disintegrate as personalities are the ones who lose that thread.

Paul Auster
I hurry past, avoiding eye-contact. "Hello Hon!" She manages to catch me. Again.

Who IS this woman who faces me head-on every evening as I step up from the curb, making my way to the second bus on my commute home? And more to the point, why can't I just answer her? Or take another route home?

I can't answer these questions.

All I know is that every evening, rain, hail or snow, the woman in the wheelchair comes from where I know not, to park herself on the corner of Sixtieth and Second. Sentry-like she faces east and greets the regular commuters as they walk past, to the left or right of her chair.

Most of them answer in a friendly, normal sort of way. Some give her money. Is that why she's there? I don't know.

She doesn't look homeless. She looks healthy, fortyish and average. Fair skin. Light brown hair. Always.

When I used to smoke, she'd notice and ask for a cigarette. If I accidentally made eye-contact, I'd give her one and then walk quickly around her so I didn't have to reply to her, "Thanks, hon!"

But I haven't smoked for over a year now, and so I feel free to walk past, in silence. I try to pretend I don't hear her, but somehow I rarely succeed.

I want to walk home in peace. What's with this woman? The situation is starting to take on the vibe of a duel - a bizarre hide-and-seek. I'm sure she knows I'm trying to avoid greeting her, and is determined to say her "Hello hon!"

I have tried different strategies. A few times for example, I've kept pace with another pedestrian - one on my right - as I cross the road. We step up from the curb in unison. Surely I can keep to the left of my twin as we walk past. The twin, my shield. But EVERY TIME I've tried this, at the last minute my shield will make a sharp right and disappear in into the crowd heading north up Second, leaving me EXPOSED!

"Hello hun!"

I keep walking eyes looking straight ahead, giving a barely perceptible nod. No point in being rude.

So New York. So Manhattan. Like something out of an early Paul Auster or a Patricia Highsmith. Now I'm REALLY spooking out. Paul Auster - New Yorker. Highsmith - New Yorker. Both wrote of the outwardly mundane, small coincidences and meetings in Manhattan, where anonymity should be easy to come by.

But is not. I need an Elaine Benes - a Seinfeld character to help me over this. Or should I discuss it with my therapist? I'm at a loss. There's only one thing for certain.

Tomorrow at 5:45 p.m. I'll step up from the curb. My right flank exposed.

"Hello hon!"

Kathleewng
New York