There was light. There was light all around him and Carl's eyes, wide as serving platters, took it all in at once, too quick for his brain to make any sense of it. It was a bright, flickering yellow, spiced with reds and whites. It was huge and filled his poor vision, this light. And below it, as if frolicking, were the constant shifting blurs of blacks, grays, and browns. People, like him, enjoying the light. This must be what it looks like outside the gates of heaven, Carl thought to himself. It was a lot like a day at the beach. Except it was night. And they were in the middle of the city. And it was cold.
So wonderfully cold.
“That sure is something, aint it?” Carl called out above the din of the crowd and traffic. Marie was silent. She pulled her arms closer to herself. Wrapped the scarf tighter around her neck. Lowered her head and braced against the wind. Silently, she cursed her own vanity at not wearing the dull black knitted cap Ruth had offered her. She was too cold to be amazed. Too cold to look up in such a tall city. She'd be looking up forever if Carl had his way. He hadn't asked her to describe any of it, but she knew he wanted her to anyway. He must have. She didn't know the words for the architecture. She only new the shapes. “This one's got these little protruding squares on the corner, where the bricks overlap.” She said as they passed yet another building in little Russia. “They're faces.” She whispered, as he stared at the the exterior details St. John's Cathedral.
In their own separate ways they'd practically become 'New Yorkers' during their three days of being there. Carl was a busy-body. He struck up conversations with complete strangers, people they sat next to on the bus or couples they met in the park. Marie still had horrible flashbacks of the man Carl sat next to on the bus. Marie had only stepped in, seen people sitting and and hanging on to straps, chatting casually but gravitating toward the rear of the bus. And yet there was a bench right at the front, empty except for one man. Marie took one look at his pale face. His dry lips. One look at his thin, bony fingers holding his jacket closed where the zipper had failed to do the job, and she knew. He had it.
Carl, of course, sat right down next to him. He patted the seat beside him, staring up at Marie's shirt. “Its not that long a trip, Carl.” She said, forcing herself to look at everything else in the bus except the man. “I'll stand.”
“Suit yourself. Just tryin' to be gentlemanly, is all.” Carl replied. Marie's heart skipped a beat when he leaned over to the warm, breast-less shape next to him and jokingly muttered. “Women. Am I right?” Somehow, the young man; looked just as shocked as she did.
Carl had an opinion about everything and never hesitated to share it. He spoke about municipal matters as if it affected him directly, as if his vote mattered here.
“Such a shame” he'd commented after they'd passed what was once a community garden, only someone had planted a single stalk of marijuana which grew tall and proud, as any other plant does. Not realizing that it should be discreet about itself. And by the time the children started asling about the plant with the purplish-reddish things on top, there were chains on the gates and the garden was left to be overgrown.
“They shouldn't be able to just do that”, he'd griped to no one, because by that time Marie had stopped listening. He'd never even seen the garden, she'd thought. Not really. Just the black of the gate and the thick green of the overgrown weeds beyond. And maybe, at some point in passing to or from the Twins', he'd caught a glint of red from a rotten tomato or something. Normal people wouldn't be concerned about this in the least. But not her husband. Oh no. Not Carl.
“There's probably rats living in there anyway.” She said the last time they'd passed and his feet slowed by the garden. “Now would you come on, we're going to be late.”
Marie was thankful that her husband couldn't see the bland shape of her face. As Carl stopped in the middle of the subway platform to rifle through his pockets for money to drop into the open guitar case of some mediocre musician with no teeth, she got the feeling that she'd gotten her fill of this crummy city. When the coins fell from his hand and missed the guitar case completely, scattering all about the subway platform; and when not a single soul stepped forward to help pick them up, her feeling was confirmed.
The truth was, even had someone stepped forward, she still would have led Carl by the arm away from that place. She was suspicious of everyone; and a great many things, at varying times. Secretly she was glad at least that her suspicions transcended race. She didn't trust young white boys in baggy clothes as she imagined that, in their twisted minds, they might perceive violent, thuggish behaviour to be another aspect of the 'coolness' they were trying so hard to attain. She didn't have a problem with young black men in baggy clothes, so long as they didn't seem to notice her (And if they did notice, she would notice, because she watched them nearly constantly from the corners of her eyes). The well dressed black men on the other hand...
“Well what if he does try something?” she thought to herself while eyeing a well groomed black man who was sitting directly across from her in the crowded train car. He was wearing a long wool coat, polished leather shoes and pinstripe slacks. “He could grab my purse at the next stop and dash out before anyone even knows what to do. What if he does? Would the police even believe my description? Who does he think he's fooling anyway? What's he doing on a train at this hour of the night looking like that?”
It was like that. A certain hyper-awareness that she was careful not to display as fear. Young white men. Young black men. Women speaking rapidly and animatedly in languages she couldn't understand. Anyone Carl struck up a conversation with. Anyone who struck up conversations with him. Anyone with a beard.
The only ones she hadn't found suspicious, the ones she hadn't really encountered were the Asians. This wasn't a surprise to her when she thought about it in the grand scheme of things. She saw them once or twice in business shirts flitting about, or in the occasional store or restaurant. “They are a very industrious people, the Asians.” she'd said to herself when she realized it one day. But that was before they came to New York, and long before Carl had gotten it into his head to visit Time Square in the middle of what had to be the coldest night of the year.
They'd climbed the subway stairs, exiting onto the street along with the the surge of bodies that seemed to have been squeezed out of the subway car with them. It was as if they were caught in a rushing channel of people. Like fish swimming toward the spawning grounds. And no matter which way Marie tugged at her husband they still found themselves caught in the same rushing crowd. Not even the terrain could slow them, as they dipped the step at each curb to rush across the intersection, dodging cars, one with the entire mad city.
And just as she was about to haul Carl aside to get her wits about her, the crowd seemed to spread cross a wide intersection, a congregation in the middle of the street. There were lights, and noise and the postcard image she'd seen many a time in many a movie. But famous Time Square had something else that Marie had never accounted for. While Carl gawked upward at the gaudy advertisements and mute television programs displayed pointlessly for all to ignore, Marie was marveling at all the Asians.
Asians by the handful. Young Asians, some wearing baggy clothes with metal in their faces. Others in tight denim with their hair dyed and twisted into spikes or thorns. Asian women who spoke rapidly in languages she couldn't dream of understanding, then covered their faces or mouths and giggled. They didn't have beards, but they had little soul patches, tufts of hair between their bottom lips and chin. And more than once someone had come up to her at random and asked her something in broken English. Marie mostly just shook her had no, but she could see them now, rounding up with another as if searching within one another's vocabulary for enough decent English words to make a decent english sentence. Soon she'd find herself in a conversation with a couple dozen Asians and she'd--
“That sure is something, aint it?” Carl called out above the din of the crowd and traffic. Marie was silent. She pulled her arms closer to herself. Wrapped the scarf tighter around her neck. Lowered her head and braced against the wind. She should have taken that ugly hat.
So wonderfully cold.
“That sure is something, aint it?” Carl called out above the din of the crowd and traffic. Marie was silent. She pulled her arms closer to herself. Wrapped the scarf tighter around her neck. Lowered her head and braced against the wind. Silently, she cursed her own vanity at not wearing the dull black knitted cap Ruth had offered her. She was too cold to be amazed. Too cold to look up in such a tall city. She'd be looking up forever if Carl had his way. He hadn't asked her to describe any of it, but she knew he wanted her to anyway. He must have. She didn't know the words for the architecture. She only new the shapes. “This one's got these little protruding squares on the corner, where the bricks overlap.” She said as they passed yet another building in little Russia. “They're faces.” She whispered, as he stared at the the exterior details St. John's Cathedral.
In their own separate ways they'd practically become 'New Yorkers' during their three days of being there. Carl was a busy-body. He struck up conversations with complete strangers, people they sat next to on the bus or couples they met in the park. Marie still had horrible flashbacks of the man Carl sat next to on the bus. Marie had only stepped in, seen people sitting and and hanging on to straps, chatting casually but gravitating toward the rear of the bus. And yet there was a bench right at the front, empty except for one man. Marie took one look at his pale face. His dry lips. One look at his thin, bony fingers holding his jacket closed where the zipper had failed to do the job, and she knew. He had it.
Carl, of course, sat right down next to him. He patted the seat beside him, staring up at Marie's shirt. “Its not that long a trip, Carl.” She said, forcing herself to look at everything else in the bus except the man. “I'll stand.”
“Suit yourself. Just tryin' to be gentlemanly, is all.” Carl replied. Marie's heart skipped a beat when he leaned over to the warm, breast-less shape next to him and jokingly muttered. “Women. Am I right?” Somehow, the young man; looked just as shocked as she did.
Carl had an opinion about everything and never hesitated to share it. He spoke about municipal matters as if it affected him directly, as if his vote mattered here.
“Such a shame” he'd commented after they'd passed what was once a community garden, only someone had planted a single stalk of marijuana which grew tall and proud, as any other plant does. Not realizing that it should be discreet about itself. And by the time the children started asling about the plant with the purplish-reddish things on top, there were chains on the gates and the garden was left to be overgrown.
“They shouldn't be able to just do that”, he'd griped to no one, because by that time Marie had stopped listening. He'd never even seen the garden, she'd thought. Not really. Just the black of the gate and the thick green of the overgrown weeds beyond. And maybe, at some point in passing to or from the Twins', he'd caught a glint of red from a rotten tomato or something. Normal people wouldn't be concerned about this in the least. But not her husband. Oh no. Not Carl.
“There's probably rats living in there anyway.” She said the last time they'd passed and his feet slowed by the garden. “Now would you come on, we're going to be late.”
Marie was thankful that her husband couldn't see the bland shape of her face. As Carl stopped in the middle of the subway platform to rifle through his pockets for money to drop into the open guitar case of some mediocre musician with no teeth, she got the feeling that she'd gotten her fill of this crummy city. When the coins fell from his hand and missed the guitar case completely, scattering all about the subway platform; and when not a single soul stepped forward to help pick them up, her feeling was confirmed.
The truth was, even had someone stepped forward, she still would have led Carl by the arm away from that place. She was suspicious of everyone; and a great many things, at varying times. Secretly she was glad at least that her suspicions transcended race. She didn't trust young white boys in baggy clothes as she imagined that, in their twisted minds, they might perceive violent, thuggish behaviour to be another aspect of the 'coolness' they were trying so hard to attain. She didn't have a problem with young black men in baggy clothes, so long as they didn't seem to notice her (And if they did notice, she would notice, because she watched them nearly constantly from the corners of her eyes). The well dressed black men on the other hand...
“Well what if he does try something?” she thought to herself while eyeing a well groomed black man who was sitting directly across from her in the crowded train car. He was wearing a long wool coat, polished leather shoes and pinstripe slacks. “He could grab my purse at the next stop and dash out before anyone even knows what to do. What if he does? Would the police even believe my description? Who does he think he's fooling anyway? What's he doing on a train at this hour of the night looking like that?”
It was like that. A certain hyper-awareness that she was careful not to display as fear. Young white men. Young black men. Women speaking rapidly and animatedly in languages she couldn't understand. Anyone Carl struck up a conversation with. Anyone who struck up conversations with him. Anyone with a beard.
The only ones she hadn't found suspicious, the ones she hadn't really encountered were the Asians. This wasn't a surprise to her when she thought about it in the grand scheme of things. She saw them once or twice in business shirts flitting about, or in the occasional store or restaurant. “They are a very industrious people, the Asians.” she'd said to herself when she realized it one day. But that was before they came to New York, and long before Carl had gotten it into his head to visit Time Square in the middle of what had to be the coldest night of the year.
They'd climbed the subway stairs, exiting onto the street along with the the surge of bodies that seemed to have been squeezed out of the subway car with them. It was as if they were caught in a rushing channel of people. Like fish swimming toward the spawning grounds. And no matter which way Marie tugged at her husband they still found themselves caught in the same rushing crowd. Not even the terrain could slow them, as they dipped the step at each curb to rush across the intersection, dodging cars, one with the entire mad city.
And just as she was about to haul Carl aside to get her wits about her, the crowd seemed to spread cross a wide intersection, a congregation in the middle of the street. There were lights, and noise and the postcard image she'd seen many a time in many a movie. But famous Time Square had something else that Marie had never accounted for. While Carl gawked upward at the gaudy advertisements and mute television programs displayed pointlessly for all to ignore, Marie was marveling at all the Asians.
Asians by the handful. Young Asians, some wearing baggy clothes with metal in their faces. Others in tight denim with their hair dyed and twisted into spikes or thorns. Asian women who spoke rapidly in languages she couldn't dream of understanding, then covered their faces or mouths and giggled. They didn't have beards, but they had little soul patches, tufts of hair between their bottom lips and chin. And more than once someone had come up to her at random and asked her something in broken English. Marie mostly just shook her had no, but she could see them now, rounding up with another as if searching within one another's vocabulary for enough decent English words to make a decent english sentence. Soon she'd find herself in a conversation with a couple dozen Asians and she'd--
“That sure is something, aint it?” Carl called out above the din of the crowd and traffic. Marie was silent. She pulled her arms closer to herself. Wrapped the scarf tighter around her neck. Lowered her head and braced against the wind. She should have taken that ugly hat.
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