You trust that your friend will take you to safe places, yes, even here in New York City with the street dwellers, and the shadow lurkers, and those who rush by, propelled by unbroken focus with eyes fixed straight ahead, and, of course, your friend who invited you so many seasons ago to come visit but you were so broke and needed at home that you just couldn’t possibly.
You remember the day when the plane ticket arrived in the mail. I’m not taking no for an answer, she said, so you boarded the plane even though you swore you’d never get on one again, because she is, after all, your closest and dearest friend, your childhood memory in motion – the one who helps you not take it all so seriously, and you could use a hug from that right now.
She assures you this will be the time of your life, and you follow her as she ventures down the street going who knows where, and you study her and wonder what happened to the person who was just as afraid of her shadow, or was that always just you? You don’t remember her being this gutsy as to truck along in charge of a city, and all you have to do is follow and hope no one gets between you so you don’t get lost in this sea of faces, proving once and for all that you are in fact, the nobody you thought you were.
You were somebody in the mountains that seem forever away now, but here in the city? You have anonymity and when you stop at the kiosk to buy a pashmina, and no one is there talking about so-and-so and how she shouldn’t-have-done-that, and honey, did you happen to see the recipe of the week? Pea salad. You thought you’d seen it all when every last church lady showed up for the pot-luck supper last spring with pea salad, and since the mountain is so small and it’s twelve miles to town, that’s all that was on the menu so you had best love pea salad, but that was there and this is here.
And by the way, where is here? What is it that draws people to this place, where you can indeed, be nobody if you want to?
Here is nothing like the mountains, where the air is sweet and sometimes not, and the horses wait by the fence for a slice of a big apple, and you walk with your senses keen, ever knowing that at any time you could come face to face with a bear as you stroll past the cemetery where your papa sleeps, but what you find walking beside you is cow Number 54 who has bolted the fence. Again. It’s just you and Number 54, out for your daily breath of fresh air, and you tell all your troubles to this four legged soul sister as the two of you heifers clomp side by side, and you can scream into the wind, and your secret is safe with 54.
Here is nothing like the mountains where your eyes dare not deviate from the hairpin turns, lest you find your car in a ditch waiting to be rescued on a rainy evening in the dark where no New York City lights show the way, but as long as you are not injured all you have to do is wait. A passerby will fetch your spouse because they know it’s you turned upside-down on your head in that black shiny new Camero all the tongues have been wagging about, and it’s now crumpled like a can of coke zero because you were in too big a hurry on that slick leather-polished road. Slow down. Show some respect.
You look around at the buildings that fade into the sky and pray you won’t disappear into the crowd that puts you on alert. Move or be moved by the masses. Stand still and get stomped like an ant in the yard. There is no lollygagging here. Pick up the pace, yell wait for me all you want to, but a horn drowns you out and your friend’s legs are longer than yours and she’s bookin’ – so fix your eyes on the pavement and move your bloomin’ butt. Go ahead, say that word. Butt. Say it right out loud, and maybe another similar not-allowed-in-the-mountains udderance that preachers wives are not supposed to say – who’s going to hear you? And if no one hears it, then who cares if you say it? 54 isn’t here.
Here, in the city where the sidewalk moves, you breathe in the contagious, electric air. Lock elbows with the crowd cueing at the kiosks selling pashminas – get the red and black one – it goes with your suit. What is a pashmina anyway, and where would you possibly wear it? Out for a saunter with Number 54? Does it matter? It’s a pashmina. Get it. When you get back to the mountains you can tell them it belonged to the Dali Lama or some exotic dancer with bigger you-know-whats than you, if you don’t mind getting snubbed out of the church, and while you are at it, don’t be such a tightwad – get one for 54 too.
Where are we going again? Bubba’s? Your friend says the steaks there are fabulous, but you tell her about Number 54, and that no, you just can’t do that to her, she’ll see it in your eyes and will know you have taken it out of her hide. So you order coffee because 54 gave up the cream without a fight, and you order the shrimp on the Barbie and your friend thinks this is drop dead funny since her name is Barb, and she eats like a picked bird as you finish the last of your cocktail sauce and prove yourself a member of the are-you-going-to-eat-the-rest-of-that? club, as she tosses a hush puppy your way and you say, no-I-couldn’t-possibly, but then again, what the hell, you are in hell of a city, and here for a hell of a good time, and you might just explode if you take one more bite – oh the hell with it, pass the puppy and get out of the way.
You’ve done as much damage as you can do, so you leave Bubba’s and head down the street on your 54 year old legs and come face to face with another kiosk, this time peddling I Heart New York t-shirts, and you wish it was Rolaids, but you purchase the t-shirt. But wait-a-minute, don’t stop there, get one for the family, and while you are at it, get one for the church ladies that they will never wear in the mountains because they won’t want to explain to their church friends that no, they did not in fact go to sin city, it was their preacher’s wife, thank you very much. And what will you say? Does it matter? You have arrived because you are here, but before that, you arrived there, which means you have to take yourself with you wherever you go. Do any of these street people know this? Do they know how small you are in the city? Do you know? What’s the largest size these come in? Do you have one that will fit Number 54?
Now look what you’ve gone and done – you’ve managed to load yourself down with more than you can carry, and its getting heavy, and there you go, dragging the bag around, bumping it into people, saying excuse me, and if you are lucky your newfound invisibleness will keep people from yelling at you when you squeeze past them in the theatre with your suitcase-sized butt, dragging your overloaded bag, to watch Hairspray.
You wait outside after the show for the cast to come out – could they sign your program please? But they are in no mood for schmoozing with no-name nobodies, and push past you, they need a drink, they say, there’s a barstool waiting for them, they say, disappearing into the crowd. See? You are nobody. So you get your souvenir hairspray cup and head back to the streets following your friend who says she knows how to get back to the car, and she’s five feet eight inches tall, and you are five feet, and she’s walking fast, and you wish you’d stayed on that stupid diet so you could keep up.
Slow down will ya?
Why aren’t we taking the bus?
This street seems deserted. On second thought, speed up.
You do know where you’re going, don’t you?
It’s perfectly safe, your friend promises.
Are you off-the-radar-screen nuts? You, lifelong friend.
You expect that at any time, one of the shadows will unleash something sinister, and had best forget chatting on the way to the car because you passed angry five minutes ago, at your friend who thinks she can walk deserted streets because she has done this before in this hell of a city, and you listen to the sound of your own footsteps, and look behind you, and listen and look, and all you can think of is that you’ve had a hell of a good time, but you can’t wait to get the hell out of here, so you focus on the pavement and think about how you are not nobody. You know who exactly who you are. And this is not you.
Pick up the pace. Focus on the pavement. Think about the mountains, and the grass between your toes, and the horses’ heads bobbing for apples on a cool, crisp, fall day. And the bonfire at the Halloween weenie roast, and the marshmallows squished between chocolate and the taste of sweet s’mores, and the caramel apples, and the congregation singing Amazing Grace, and the hayride, and canning creamed corn, and baking yeast rolls, and the hands that prepare a Thanksgiving supper.
You ask God to send you an angel but hasn’t he already done that? – She’s walking down the road on the mountain; waiting and wondering where you are, ready to listen to your stories.
You never know,
Number 54 might just appear out of nowhere
to walk you home.
You remember the day when the plane ticket arrived in the mail. I’m not taking no for an answer, she said, so you boarded the plane even though you swore you’d never get on one again, because she is, after all, your closest and dearest friend, your childhood memory in motion – the one who helps you not take it all so seriously, and you could use a hug from that right now.
She assures you this will be the time of your life, and you follow her as she ventures down the street going who knows where, and you study her and wonder what happened to the person who was just as afraid of her shadow, or was that always just you? You don’t remember her being this gutsy as to truck along in charge of a city, and all you have to do is follow and hope no one gets between you so you don’t get lost in this sea of faces, proving once and for all that you are in fact, the nobody you thought you were.
You were somebody in the mountains that seem forever away now, but here in the city? You have anonymity and when you stop at the kiosk to buy a pashmina, and no one is there talking about so-and-so and how she shouldn’t-have-done-that, and honey, did you happen to see the recipe of the week? Pea salad. You thought you’d seen it all when every last church lady showed up for the pot-luck supper last spring with pea salad, and since the mountain is so small and it’s twelve miles to town, that’s all that was on the menu so you had best love pea salad, but that was there and this is here.
And by the way, where is here? What is it that draws people to this place, where you can indeed, be nobody if you want to?
Here is nothing like the mountains, where the air is sweet and sometimes not, and the horses wait by the fence for a slice of a big apple, and you walk with your senses keen, ever knowing that at any time you could come face to face with a bear as you stroll past the cemetery where your papa sleeps, but what you find walking beside you is cow Number 54 who has bolted the fence. Again. It’s just you and Number 54, out for your daily breath of fresh air, and you tell all your troubles to this four legged soul sister as the two of you heifers clomp side by side, and you can scream into the wind, and your secret is safe with 54.
Here is nothing like the mountains where your eyes dare not deviate from the hairpin turns, lest you find your car in a ditch waiting to be rescued on a rainy evening in the dark where no New York City lights show the way, but as long as you are not injured all you have to do is wait. A passerby will fetch your spouse because they know it’s you turned upside-down on your head in that black shiny new Camero all the tongues have been wagging about, and it’s now crumpled like a can of coke zero because you were in too big a hurry on that slick leather-polished road. Slow down. Show some respect.
You look around at the buildings that fade into the sky and pray you won’t disappear into the crowd that puts you on alert. Move or be moved by the masses. Stand still and get stomped like an ant in the yard. There is no lollygagging here. Pick up the pace, yell wait for me all you want to, but a horn drowns you out and your friend’s legs are longer than yours and she’s bookin’ – so fix your eyes on the pavement and move your bloomin’ butt. Go ahead, say that word. Butt. Say it right out loud, and maybe another similar not-allowed-in-the-mountains udderance that preachers wives are not supposed to say – who’s going to hear you? And if no one hears it, then who cares if you say it? 54 isn’t here.
Here, in the city where the sidewalk moves, you breathe in the contagious, electric air. Lock elbows with the crowd cueing at the kiosks selling pashminas – get the red and black one – it goes with your suit. What is a pashmina anyway, and where would you possibly wear it? Out for a saunter with Number 54? Does it matter? It’s a pashmina. Get it. When you get back to the mountains you can tell them it belonged to the Dali Lama or some exotic dancer with bigger you-know-whats than you, if you don’t mind getting snubbed out of the church, and while you are at it, don’t be such a tightwad – get one for 54 too.
Where are we going again? Bubba’s? Your friend says the steaks there are fabulous, but you tell her about Number 54, and that no, you just can’t do that to her, she’ll see it in your eyes and will know you have taken it out of her hide. So you order coffee because 54 gave up the cream without a fight, and you order the shrimp on the Barbie and your friend thinks this is drop dead funny since her name is Barb, and she eats like a picked bird as you finish the last of your cocktail sauce and prove yourself a member of the are-you-going-to-eat-the-rest-of-that? club, as she tosses a hush puppy your way and you say, no-I-couldn’t-possibly, but then again, what the hell, you are in hell of a city, and here for a hell of a good time, and you might just explode if you take one more bite – oh the hell with it, pass the puppy and get out of the way.
You’ve done as much damage as you can do, so you leave Bubba’s and head down the street on your 54 year old legs and come face to face with another kiosk, this time peddling I Heart New York t-shirts, and you wish it was Rolaids, but you purchase the t-shirt. But wait-a-minute, don’t stop there, get one for the family, and while you are at it, get one for the church ladies that they will never wear in the mountains because they won’t want to explain to their church friends that no, they did not in fact go to sin city, it was their preacher’s wife, thank you very much. And what will you say? Does it matter? You have arrived because you are here, but before that, you arrived there, which means you have to take yourself with you wherever you go. Do any of these street people know this? Do they know how small you are in the city? Do you know? What’s the largest size these come in? Do you have one that will fit Number 54?
Now look what you’ve gone and done – you’ve managed to load yourself down with more than you can carry, and its getting heavy, and there you go, dragging the bag around, bumping it into people, saying excuse me, and if you are lucky your newfound invisibleness will keep people from yelling at you when you squeeze past them in the theatre with your suitcase-sized butt, dragging your overloaded bag, to watch Hairspray.
You wait outside after the show for the cast to come out – could they sign your program please? But they are in no mood for schmoozing with no-name nobodies, and push past you, they need a drink, they say, there’s a barstool waiting for them, they say, disappearing into the crowd. See? You are nobody. So you get your souvenir hairspray cup and head back to the streets following your friend who says she knows how to get back to the car, and she’s five feet eight inches tall, and you are five feet, and she’s walking fast, and you wish you’d stayed on that stupid diet so you could keep up.
Slow down will ya?
Why aren’t we taking the bus?
This street seems deserted. On second thought, speed up.
You do know where you’re going, don’t you?
It’s perfectly safe, your friend promises.
Are you off-the-radar-screen nuts? You, lifelong friend.
You expect that at any time, one of the shadows will unleash something sinister, and had best forget chatting on the way to the car because you passed angry five minutes ago, at your friend who thinks she can walk deserted streets because she has done this before in this hell of a city, and you listen to the sound of your own footsteps, and look behind you, and listen and look, and all you can think of is that you’ve had a hell of a good time, but you can’t wait to get the hell out of here, so you focus on the pavement and think about how you are not nobody. You know who exactly who you are. And this is not you.
Pick up the pace. Focus on the pavement. Think about the mountains, and the grass between your toes, and the horses’ heads bobbing for apples on a cool, crisp, fall day. And the bonfire at the Halloween weenie roast, and the marshmallows squished between chocolate and the taste of sweet s’mores, and the caramel apples, and the congregation singing Amazing Grace, and the hayride, and canning creamed corn, and baking yeast rolls, and the hands that prepare a Thanksgiving supper.
You ask God to send you an angel but hasn’t he already done that? – She’s walking down the road on the mountain; waiting and wondering where you are, ready to listen to your stories.
You never know,
Number 54 might just appear out of nowhere
to walk you home.
