Zach’s 1250

(Originally published 3/31/19)

I have filed away my yesterday under the “World We Now Know.” Walking along a Manhattan sidewalk and minding my own business, a young woman with a small dog came up alongside of me. She was jabbering away on her phone—a mile a minute—oblivious to one and all in her path. That’s par for the course in 2019, by the way. I heard her say something about a friend’s son who, apparently, scored “only” a 1250 on his SATs. “That’s not such a bad score,” the lady—in a generous mood, I suppose—added.

Now, I doubt such a reassurance would assuage Zach’s mom or, for that matter, Zach. For they both know that a 1250 score is—ipso facto—the kiss of death. Admittance to the most prestigious of prestigious schools just isn’t in the cards. And, let’s face it, status is everything to the status-seekers. 1250 doesn’t buy too many bragging rights. I don’t why, but Lori Loughlin popped into my head at that moment.

A footnote to my encounter with that annoying woman so wrapped up in an annoying personal phone conversation on a hopping city sidewalk: She would, on occasion, acknowledge the fact that she was indeed in the bright light of day. It happened when her little canine friend passed a spritz of urine and then—lo and behold—a couple of marble-sized poops as we used to say. In the immediate aftermath of both the Number One and the Number Two events, the chatty dog walker excitedly exclaimed in a baby-like voice: “Very good!”

After that stimulating experience, I came upon a stretch of sidewalk with scattered white paper plates on it. For the better part of a block, the grounds were littered with them. Each individual plate had the word “God” scrawled—in black magic marker—on it. The Lord works in mysterious ways, I thought. But, then again, everywhere is God’s Country, isn’t it?

Speaking of God’s Country—New York City—police officers with machine guns can now be seen in front of busy entrances. I spied three of them at a Madison Square Garden entry point. As I passed by, another passerby queried one of the cops. She wasn’t wondering why the man had a big gun strapped to his shoulder. She just wanted directions to the Empire State Building. You see that big antenna in the sky. Follow it like the Three Wise Men followed that Bright Star.

It’s the new normal and I’m happy the police presence is there. I just wish they didn’t have to be. I considered taking a close-up image—of the “World We Now Know”—but decided against it. I’ve heard this subway announcement more times than I can count: “Backpacks and other large containers are subject to random searches by the police.” Ditto the street. Pocket cameras, too, are not off limits. The last thing I wanted was the confiscation of my faithful companion.

In the Land Down Under—the subway—my trip commenced at the Van Cortlandt Park terminal, which is above ground. A homeless man with a cane—whom I’ve seen before—greeted me and asked if I could spare some change. I gave him two dollars. He replied, “You made my day!” I hope I really did. On the subsequent ride downtown, a panhandler entered the subway car requesting “food” or “any cash that you could spare.” While he informed the assembled that he was homeless, his approach was all wrong—no detailed back-story and a somewhat intimidating manner. I gave him a dollar and a woman—with her young son—offered him some food. It was a bag containing cut pieces of grapefruit. While he readily accepted my buck, he turned down the fresh fruit. My advice is that if you are going to ask for food or money—because you are hungry and homeless—accept the food as well as the money. It’s better for business.

Another fellow then got on the train who didn’t appear to be homeless. He didn’t ask for anything and sat directly across from me. Before the man uttered a word, I sensed menace afoot. He just looked incredibly angry. The guy also listened in to others’ conversations and muttered aloud various profane responses to them. All the while his eyes threateningly flitted back and forth. They caught mine for one brief second. I quickly turned away. Can’t let that happen again! A family of tourists appeared concerned. Fortuitously, he exited the train after only a few stops. I noticed, though, that his simmering anger accompanied him to the station platform as he seemingly considered his next move, which I thought might be reentering the subway car. When the doors closed and the man was on the other side of them, I was greatly relieved and so were the folks from Dubuque, Iowa.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)