Strangers in the Light

“Don’t talk to strangers!” Sound counsel imparted to me when I was young. However, the advice assumed a new and higher meaning in my adulthood. Case-in-point: I was sorely tested this past week when an elderly gentleman plopped down right beside me in a snippet of parkland known as Van Cortlandt’s Tail. The spot supplies bird’s eye views of Broadway traffic and the ever-busy elevated subway tracks above it. Please trust me when I say that this wandering oldster had a sea of empty benches from which to choose. It's no surprise then that I internally cringed at our close proximity. The geezer had violated my personal space and—up to that moment—the peaceful tranquility of the Tail. Of course, I knew full well what the codger was after—an audience of one to perform his one-man show.

Now, I’ve lent an ear to the lonely on many occasions, but have come to the conclusion that most people who approach strangers in the light for small talk aren’t remotely interested in the art of conversation. Rather, they want to hold court: rave about this, that, and the other thing—all of no interest to me. When I take a breather on a park bench, I am among the proud fraternity of men and women who don't want to speak with strangers. Why? Because talk is cheap—period and end of story. 

And now the rest of the story: I uncomfortably ignored this senior citizen for a few minutes that seemed like an eternity. As I prepared my getaway, he began rifling through some papers that he pulled out of a tattered tote bag. Happily, my silence proved golden. The old fellow who desperately wanted an ear to chew on got up before I could do the same. I felt kind of bad as I very literally said good-bye to him. But sometimes you just have to look out for Number One.

Remember: Mum's the word!

When the unwanted stranger came into my life, I was enjoying the vista and solitude before me.

What a difference a day made. Twenty-four little hours.

I distinctly recall when this McDonald's restaurant first opened in the 1970s. It was a big deal in the neighborhood. The place wasn't serving breakfast in those bygone days and closed during the nighttime hours. Nowadays it's a round-the-clock affair. Not too long ago in the wee small hours of the morning, a McDonald's employee got stabbed and killed in the parking lot. The local 50th Precinct, which is several yards away, responded with alacrity.

I initially thought that I was witnessing a hawk descending on its prey: an elderly woman in this instance. But it was only a pigeon making a beeline for a discarded piece of pizza crust.

One empty bench among a sea of empty benches in Van Cortlandt's Tail.

Recently, I've encountered these pay-as-you-go Lime bikes parked in the oddest places—sometimes for days.

The mysterious long and winding road of Riverdale. In need of a major facelift, the apartment building alongside it claims that it's city property. The city says it's not. Whose baby are you? Where do you come from?

They say the redheaded women are bright on Broadway.

Now that looks like a suspicious suitcase to me. 

Really, there's nothing finer than an old-fashioned diner, which are fading fast from the New York City landscape.

Pigeon life lesson: There is nothing to fear but fear itself.

Pigeon wondering if it pays to visit Ellis Island.

Pigeons contemplating their roots...

When I came upon this trendy children's wear shop in Manhattan's Tribeca neighborhood, I thought it sported a funnier name than Harvey. I figured Polarn, whomever he or she was, had probably been subject to a fair share of ridicule through the years. But it turned out not to be a person's name after all. It's a Swedish outfit and the moniker translates as "Buddy and the Little One."

I wish him all the best...

Gave proof through the night...

That our flag was still there...

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)