by Jan Schmidt
Writer’s Note: “Stranger Danger” is one of the short pieces that I’m stitching together for a full-length memoir, The Book of Miracles, which looks at seventy years of family, friendships, addiction, recovery, adoption, and how life’s seemingly random griefs and marvels intersect.
Having just returned yesterday from a nine-day trip to Wisconsin, I was still in shock from seeing my son in the hospital after his stroke and found New York City a jolt to my already jolted system. He was out now, doing better, walking with a walker. From the beginning he was talking, no slurring, just his usual witty, sarcastic self. My first day back, and, like an automaton, I had followed my usual Saturday routine: AA meeting at ten and my African dance class in the afternoon. Now I was slouching along First Avenue in the East Village as thoughts of my son’s predicament drew my brain and heart into panicked fear. Yet, at the same time, I couldn’t help but revel in the sounds, the light, the rhythm of New York City. The people of every size with multicolored clothing, kids on skateboards twisting around us, the sky cut by buildings with intricate cornices and moldings, the cars speeding along, a giant SUV rocking hip hop beats, the homeless woman I recognized from when I lived in this area, all this enveloped me as I rushed to catch my bus at the stop below Houston.
In Wisconsin, the streets were free of pedestrians; everyone drove wherever they were going, gliding through an immense, surround-view blue sky edged by green trees. The nights were quiet. One person had asked if I had trouble sleeping without the hue and cry of New York City. I joked that I had to add car horns and sirens to my white noise machine. Occasionally, someone would ask about crime, about the gritty, mean New York City streets. Wasn’t I afraid to walk by all those people with murder in their hearts or ride the subway? Not as frightening, I said, as the fear of getting hit by a car moving at 80 miles per hour on a freeway.
I zigzagged down First Avenue among other self-concerned, distracted individuals and dodged cell phone talkers, groups blocking the sidewalk, and parents with strollers. At 4th Street, I stopped, looked to the right and left before crossing against the red light, when a man, a young man, maybe in his twenties or early thirties, said, “Come on. We can make it.”
As we crossed the street, a car, halfway down the block, hurled towards us. I said, “Yes, these steel contraptions can’t do anything to us.” He smiled. To myself, I said, “I’ve been swerving and dodging traffic for longer than you’ve been alive.”
Once safely across, I thanked him. We both smiled. He continued ahead of me. At 3rd Street, another red light. He had stopped to let the cars pass, then saw me and grabbed my hand. “Come on, I’ll get you to the other side.” He led me across that street, against the light again. It reminded me of Phil Parker’s qualification some years ago in our AA meeting. “As a child, I was a sunbeam for Jesus. I’d even help little old ladies across the street whether they wanted to go or not.” I laughed along with everyone when he said this, never dreaming that at the young age of 77 I’d be that little old lady.
My new friend walked with me along First Avenue, still holding my hand in his—me, a gray-haired white lady, he, a young, maybe thirtyish Black man. I wondered if he might be trying some con, attempting to hustle me, but his hand in mine meant he couldn’t get into my purse hanging on my shoulder between us. But mainly, his eyes didn’t have the cold, empty stare or quickly darting eyes of the pure crazy. Plus, there was something about him. Something kind and genuine. Something open.
When we reached the next corner on Second Street, I told him, “I lived in an apartment on this street for over forty years. However, we had to move when my husband had trouble climbing up the four flights.”
“Husband? What’s he going to say when he sees you holding hands with a Black man?”
“He’d beat your ass. He’s a Black man, too.”
He looked at me, maybe seeing me for the first time. “What would he do if I was white?”
“He’d beat your ass either way,” I said, laughing.
I didn’t mention that Arthur, at 87, wasn’t doing a lot of ass-whipping, though he could if the situation warranted it.
At Houston Street, my new friend waited for a green light before he maneuvered me across that expanse. Near my bus stop, he looked at me closely. “Do you mind if I ask how you and your husband met?”
It seemed he couldn’t imagine how two folks, probably from before the Civil War, one Caucasian, one Black, might have gotten together. Unfathomable.
“We met thirty-seven years ago at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting. We have thirty-seven years clean and sober now.”
He stopped dramatically, tossing his other hand down. “Wow. I’m on my way to an NA dance on Madison Street. I have eighteen months.”
His clear brown eyes glowed with recognition. We laughed the laugh of mutual understanding, of connection. No matter our differences, we realized we were related, as though we’d just gotten the results of some Ancestry DNA testing.
My bus pulled up, and we untwined our hands. I got on and we waved goodbye.
While the bus moved on, I looked up at the blue sky and the clouds rushing by like fast-paced New Yorkers. Some mysterious force had allowed my new friend to reach across the barriers of negativity, judgment, age, race, and sex to help me, and I’d allowed myself to accept his help crossing the street, though a part of me wanted to add, rather snobbishly, whether I needed it or not. Though it might have been obvious in my state of fear for my son that I’d needed the comfort of his warm hand. A gift from the Universe.
Ah, the mean streets.
I looked out the window at the passing buildings of the Lower East Side and returned to the vision of my son lying in a hospital bed, first cracking jokes, then glum and silent. Some mysterious power allowed me to let my fear transform to faith. For this moment, anyway.
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