the world has turned and left me here

potatoes

I'm walking up the street at night. There is an old Polish lady standing out on the stoop. She has a funny old lady hat and glasses, and a bag beside her on the steps.

"Excuse me," she says as I pass, "could I ask you for some help?"

At this point I nearly keep walking, thinking she's probably just an old bag lady panhandling me. But there's something about her that makes me stop. "Yeah, what is it?" I demand.

"I have this sack of potatoes here and I can't carry it up the stairs to my apartment. My knees are bad."

"Oh. Alright." We start up the stairs together with the potatoes. "How many people did you have to ask before I stopped?"

"None," she says. "You were the first one I asked."

"Why did you ask me?"

"I watched many people walk by before I asked you. I looked at their faces. You had a kind face." Then she adds, "I'm something of a psychic."

There was definitely something a little weird about this situation. I deposit the potatoes in front of her door, make some flippant remark, and start off down the stairs again. There was no way I would have gone in. I don't think she would have asked me in either. Her bag could have been full of shrunken heads instead of potatoes. I could have been a serial killer with a kind face. But she had divined otherwise, and was pretty sure of her judgment. So was I for that matter. But you can never be completely sure of anyone, especially here.

So there she stood there in the lamplight at the top of the stairs, watching me go down. Part of me was pleased to hear that I had a kind face. Another part was a little disappointed. Could I be a badass someday if I needed to with a face like that, a face that was so obviously kind? The kind of face that lugs potato sacks up and down stairwells without complaint?

No, and so I realized something essential about myself. Whenever you become aware of something that is intrinsic to you, even if it's a good thing, it's a little sad--suddenly a bunch of possibilities just disappear.

the running of the suits

I awoke this Saturday morning to the sound of a band playing out on the street corner. Not so unusual for this neighborhood I'm thinking: possibly they're drumming up support for a show later in the day. But it keeps getting louder, and then I hear people cheering. Then I look out the window and what do I see but the New York City marathon running past my apartment: