The second time I stood inside Grand Central Station was much
different than the first. Then, it was the wee hours of the morning on a
holiday, and I could stare around to my heart’s content, taking in the tall
ceilings and sweeping archways as long as I wanted. The next time, it was 5:00
on a Friday, and if I would have looked up for a second I would have been swept
away by the swarming rush of people bulging around me. As I stood tucked
against one wall while Eric got our subway tickets, one hand clutching my purse
and the other wrapped around the handle of our little suitcase, all I could do
was watch the tide of people passing me.
Stories. Thousands of stories.
If I could sit down for an hour with every single one of the
people I saw in those few minutes, what could they have told me? What stories
were they living? The young man with the scarf and the guitar… the woman with
the spiky heels and wild hair… the wispy old man with the square glasses and
green cane… what adventures were they all racing off to?
Then Eric came back, triumphantly flourishing two loaded
Metro cards, and we joined the sweep of stories flowing through the station,
cramming into subway cars, pounding up stairs, and spewing out into the streets
of the city.
Later that night, we sat in a café near a Whole Foods grocery
store, sharing some ice cream. It was crowded, of course, and
people all around us were eating, so it was a while before I actually noticed
the peculiar meal the man a few tables away from us was enjoying.
You know Clarence, George Bailey’s guardian angel from It’s A Wonderful Life? That’s what this
guy looked like. He had a bag of buns and box of several sticks of butter on
the table in front of him. Very methodically, he would take out a bun and tear
it in half. Then he’d slice one half, cut a chunk of butter, and sandwich it
between the bread. Once he’d eaten that, he would cut another chunk of butter
and smear it across the end of the unsliced bun, then eat it. After two buns,
he put what was left of his meal into a bag and stood, buttoning his long
jacket. Then he left, and I watched him go, perplexed.
Why? Why eat that? Why in that strange, deliberate manner?
And why in the café? Why not take it home? He was too clean and well-dressed to
be homeless, and he didn’t have the beaten-down air of someone without
job or family, either. Over and over, the same question spun through my head as
Eric and I finished our ice cream.
What was
his story?
Was there some strange, sad significance about his chosen
meal and manner? Was it a hopeless tryst he kept, or the last meal he planned
to eat? Maybe there was some reason from home that made him pause to eat it
then: perhaps it was a strange act of spite directed toward an unhappy wife.
I didn’t get answers from the bread-and-butter man, of
course. And I didn’t get answers from any of the other people we saw in
during our weekend in New York City, either. Not from the man standing across
from us on the subway, wearing colorful pants with faces all over them. Not
from the tourists taking pictures in Times Square, laughing and talking loudly
in heavy southern accents. Not from the dancing street vender we bought kabobs
from, who knew all the words to the Black-Eyed Peas song “The Dirty Bit”. Not
from the owner of the bagel shop where we ate lunch among paper menorahs and
dreidels and “Happy Hanukkah” banners. And not from all the women we passed who
all looked the same: wool coats and tall
boots, wool coats and tall boots, wool coats and tall boots. Over and over again, the questions stumbled
through my mind, badgering silently.
What
is your story?
It wasn’t
until a man in Times Square tried to sell us tickets to a comedy club that
something else occurred to me.
“It’ll be
fun!” he said, talking fast as we tried to slide past him. “Great date night,
even for a gal with a coat like yours.”
Now, I know
bright blue coats are not exactly city fashion, as most people seem to prefer
more subtle, neutral colors: black and brown and grey. But this man’s insult to
my favorite jacket stopped my writer’s brain from taking notes on the
characters around me long enough for a new thought to lodge in my head.
He was people watching, too… and he thought I was a curiosity! Suddenly our roles were reversed: I was the character, he the writer taking notes on people. On me! What questions would he have for me if he had an hour to talk with me? Would my real story match up with his guesses? Maybe, in places, but I doubt he’d guess all of it.
The man with the flyers probably saw me and thought, “Tourist”. When I refused his brochure, he may have been able to guess from my accent that I’m not a native of the east coast. I was holding Eric’s hand, so he knew we were a couple. But he couldn’t have come close to guessing the deeper things, the ones that really define who I am, any more than I could for any of the characters I took mental notes on.
Really, I know that he didn’t give a darn about my story: he was probably just trying to get the attention of an obvious tourist long enough to persuade us to go to his show. But now, seeing myself as the object of another’s people-watching entertainment, I knew there was no way he could have guessed every detail of my life any more than I could know the thousands of stories I bumped into that weekend.
I don’t know the bread-and-butter man’s sense of humor. I don’t know who the singing, dancing street vendor is in love with. I don’t know what the bagel shop owner’s hopes are for the future (does he want to own that bagel shop forever?). I don’t know if all the women in wool coats and boots, wool coats and boots, wool coats and boots are hopeful or depressed, healthy or sick, spiritual or unreligious, dreamers or cynics. But I know that their stories are as multidimensional as mine, and I cannot just laugh at the man on the subway wearing the pants with faces on them. His soul is as rich as anyone’s, capable of the same growth, full of the same beautiful potential… and I just wish I had an hour to hear a little bit of his story.
He was people watching, too… and he thought I was a curiosity! Suddenly our roles were reversed: I was the character, he the writer taking notes on people. On me! What questions would he have for me if he had an hour to talk with me? Would my real story match up with his guesses? Maybe, in places, but I doubt he’d guess all of it.
The man with the flyers probably saw me and thought, “Tourist”. When I refused his brochure, he may have been able to guess from my accent that I’m not a native of the east coast. I was holding Eric’s hand, so he knew we were a couple. But he couldn’t have come close to guessing the deeper things, the ones that really define who I am, any more than I could for any of the characters I took mental notes on.
Really, I know that he didn’t give a darn about my story: he was probably just trying to get the attention of an obvious tourist long enough to persuade us to go to his show. But now, seeing myself as the object of another’s people-watching entertainment, I knew there was no way he could have guessed every detail of my life any more than I could know the thousands of stories I bumped into that weekend.
I don’t know the bread-and-butter man’s sense of humor. I don’t know who the singing, dancing street vendor is in love with. I don’t know what the bagel shop owner’s hopes are for the future (does he want to own that bagel shop forever?). I don’t know if all the women in wool coats and boots, wool coats and boots, wool coats and boots are hopeful or depressed, healthy or sick, spiritual or unreligious, dreamers or cynics. But I know that their stories are as multidimensional as mine, and I cannot just laugh at the man on the subway wearing the pants with faces on them. His soul is as rich as anyone’s, capable of the same growth, full of the same beautiful potential… and I just wish I had an hour to hear a little bit of his story.
