It had been nearly ten years since I'd been to New York and this twelve hour trip to Manhattan might have to last another ten. I'd taken the bus into the Port Authority and walked down 42nd Street to the Public Library where Censorship Through the Ages was on exhibit. My parents hadn't taken me to 42nd when I was a kid, but I assume that it was as gaudy then as it is now--signs flashing GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS and BOYS, BOYS, BOYS and a street preacher with an antique megaphone shouting "Jesus sees you today and HE IS NOT PLEASED."
After the library, I'd planned to go to the Van Gogh show but had forgotten that museums are closed on mondays. Museums and barbershops.
Wandering aimlessly just south of the Empire State Building, I saw a woman in her late fifties (or was she really in her early forties and exhausted?) carring a shopping bag in each hand, sweating under the July sun. She stopped, put her bags at her feet, and stuck out her right palm. Most of the crowd milled past as if she didn't exist on this planet, let alone right in front of them, yet at least one other person saw her. He stuck a Visa Card in her outstretched hand and walked on. She stared at it with a faraway what the hell am I going to do with this? look and then slipped it into one of her bags, picked them both up, and continued on her way.
© Copyright Erik Kosberg 1997, 2007
