Keep Talking: Jim The Subway Man

Keep Talking: Jim The Subway Man: This morning   waiting for the light to change on the corner of 96 & Third a man asked about my pocketbook: “Is that deer?” I felt ...

Jim The Subway Man

This morning, waiting for the light to change on the corner of 96 & Third, a man asked about my pocketbook:

“Is that deer?”

I felt woozy from my first cup of coffee and the cool, but still unseasonably warm December temperature felt good.

His engagement nudged me in a good way.

I was also unsure if he would condemn my bag as harmful to animals. I risked it.

"No," I answered, "I believe it is cow. A friend of mine made it." I debated adding that how the animal hide was sourced was responsible. 

I became animated along with him as we started to discuss hunting.

“My husband has been hunting since he was a kid. His dad taught him. He isn’t out to hurt the animals and is really responsible with the gun.”

As he came clearer into focus I saw a patchwork of clothing: bandana, long ponytail streaked with gray and held into place with more than one band: shaped like an old caterpillar. In the pocket of his flannel was a vaper. He smoked from one of those ridiculous metal cigarettes.  It was long and I could imagine him inhaling it on the job.

“Where I come from every one hunts. It's what you do.”

He was from Michigan and came here to work on the Second Avenue subway construction-which is taking forever maybe because they contract people like him from all over for work.
He specialized in ceramic/ concrete glazing.

I imagined him 700 feet underground delicately painting the surface of concrete with water resistant glazes. Ones that only certain people with specialized glaze-schooling from Michigan could do.

“I bought my husband a compound bow for his birthday a few years ago.” We continued to discuss hunting and he stated that it was unusually to meet hunters in the city.

Was I trying to impress him?

His yellow construction helmet was clipped to his jacket. It was covered with mud and stickers from all over.

Together we walked up the hill towards the subway.

I wondered what I looked like to him.

My bright pink lipstick and tortoise shell glasses. I had a ponytail, too.

A head shorter than him.

I sized him up to be in his late 40’s. He sounded like he was from Michigan and I thought it was interesting that he was plopped here to do this work on the subway.

“They send me all over the country to do this work, I’m headed to the Empire Building now."

He forgot State and I refused to correct him.

I imagined him in the woods with his bow poised to bag an eight pointer.

We walked down to the subway platform together. I pointed to the south end of the platform and said, “I’m going that way now. What’s your name?”

“Jim.”

“I’m Liz. Nice to meet you.”

I extended my hand and we shook.

Keep Talking: Hemlock Society #2

Keep Talking: Hemlock Society #2: The subway is crowded and shoving her butt onto a seat is difficult, but possible. She pulls out a book and when the train stops a whole n...

Hemlock Society #2

The subway is crowded and shoving her butt onto a seat is difficult, but possible.

She pulls out a book and when the train stops a whole new slew of people push through the door. She attends to her book.

The aisle clears and a suitcase slides down the aisle and jerks to a halt in front of her. It's orange and she looks around to see who it belongs to. No one comes to claim it so she returns to her book. After several minutes she looks up and the suitcase is still there. No one looks at it, however there is a person with a large grey duffle bag standing near the suitcase so she thinks it might belong to him. It's still not clear who is in possession of it.

A woman with a wig is leaning against the door. Her face is covered by her long dark hair.
Maybe the suitcase belongs to her.

Her mind drifts to that day in the park when a police helicopter circled over the reservoir and the wind from the chopper made giant waves in the water. The emergency vehicles came speeding on the bridle path creating a massive cloud of dust behind them. When she approached the north end of the reservoir a police man came up the path and pulled out the yellow tape to keep her and others from approaching. She watched as the divers unlocked the fence and made their way down the steep embankment to the water in search of a body.

The water was dark and murky and the helicopter was hovering at a precarious angle. The sound was whipping past her ears and she scoped the surface of the water to see if there was anything there. Nothing floating, no debris or divers. Her heart raced with anticipation and from behind she heard an emergency officer's walkie-talking. In a tinny electronic voice, "we got him."

Where she stood she could barely see the divers pull the body out of the water and place it on the floating gurney. But there it was. Still and alone.

The gravel path dusts up as she heads toward the emergency vehicles, also cordoned off and the divers peel off their wetsuits. The body is transferred into an ambulance which stands still for a while. Then the vehicles depart one at a time and the police tape is removed. She circles the reservoir one more time and when she approaches the spot where the body was retrieved a group of teenage school boys race past in a tight pack, naked torsos, wearing only their shorts and they are beautiful.

She thinks, "that is a lot of testosterone." Her heart aches seeing the beauty of young, alive flesh: before scars and blemishes mark time with wisdom and pain. Innocence is ripe and fermenting.


The orange suitcase is alone, but filled with something. Clothes, and she is quite certain someone will claim it as their own.

Keep Talking: #82 Hemlock Society (#1)

Keep Talking: #82 Hemlock Society (#1): It is obvious she was becoming one of those New Yorkers. The ones that don’t care if their socks don’t match, wearing an old skirt, ragged ...

#82 Hemlock Society (#1)

It is obvious she is becoming one of those New Yorkers. The ones that don’t care if their socks match, wearing an old skirt, ragged polo shirt without a bra, cracked sunglasses and a purple UV protected hat with sun tan lotion stains all over it.  There is no longer interest or objective style sense related to fashion or vanity. All she cares about is getting her old bones out of bed and onto the reservoir path, the one Jaqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir Path. In 1994 they dedicated it in her name. 1994. 

For all she cared she could’ve been wearing her pajamas.

 She was on her way to Frank E. Campbell Funeral Home on Madison Avenue for her father’s wake in 1990 when she saw Jackie O for the first time in the neighborhood. She was one giant head with a great jaw. A simple scarf and eyes completely hidden behind her sunglasses.

So when she walks around the reservoir, with her left ear to the water, she appreciates what Jackie has done to improve the place and hopes that if Jackie is interested in the Reservoir in her afterlife, she would not be offended by her clothes and judge her while peering down on the general vicinity of the upper east side.

There were some photos from the 70’s of Paul Simon and Arthur Garfunkle posing next to the chain link fence which surrounded the reservoir back then. She tried to visualize the Park in the 70’s. Whose idea was it to do that photo shoot there? A really good idea.

This morning some tourists asked her to take their photo. They picked a spot where the light wasn’t good, but they were so pleased when she agreed to do it. When she handed the camera back she noticed the woman’s fingernails were each painted a different color. She pointed to them and gave her a thumbs up, because she knew they spoke no English.  They really looked good. There was no rhyme or reason to her choice of colors. No pattern at all, but they were well painted and a daring choice which also showed a sign of fun and frivolity which she usually saw on younger women who did a much sloppier job painting their nails.

As she continues walking, people much younger than she are jogging past her. It is incredible how many inspirational athletic slogans there are on t-shirts: aiming to be the best, or congratulating the runner for a half marathon in 2009 for not giving up. What exactly is the significance of these slogans in the current context of their lives? Do they wear these shirts to inspire others or to brag about their athletic accomplishments?  Because for her they seem slightly ridiculous.

And this is when she realizes that she is aging. The idea of striving for a t-shirt  with a slogan to congratulate someone for running a race is funny. Especially because of who is wearing the shirt. But that’s neither here, nor there and they are gone fairly fast. She used to run, until the arthritis happened and there is no cartilage to protect her bones anymore.

So now she walks.

She enjoys hearing the fine gravel path kicked up and shuffled around like sand with imprints of every kind of sneaker sole design.

She enjoys tourists posing for their loved ones.

She enjoys overhearing a group of women in their 70’s strolling together and cracking jokes about where they will go for lunch and what they think the waitress will say about their visor-hats.

Her left ear is to the quiet water, ducks floating below and an apple tree full of fruit sagging above.

Keep Talking: #81 The Thing About It Is

Keep Talking: #81 The Thing About It Is: Essie is about 4 standing on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean. The brink, the edge and her toes are sinking into the sand and the water splas...