The Bike Commuter, who stopped along his ride over the Williamsburg Bridge to help me fix my stalled, rusty chain.

Strangers in New York

Colleen Arce
Nov 6 · 3 min read

My Kind Neighbor in Bed-Stuy, whose address I incorrectly shipped my new furniture to when I first moved to New York, who held my packages for me. 490, not 409. Thank you.

The Little Girl on the High Line, playing in a fountain where gentle water thinly flows over stone. She splashed around with her bare feet. Crouching down, she lifts the water into the air, her hands flinging over her head to sprinkle her parents. Her diaper was completely soaked, and her body covered in ripped leaves. Her blonde curls glimmered in the late golden sun.

Cute Coffee Shop Boy, who was visiting to film a documentary about artificial intelligence and art. The conversation was short and sweet. I smiled and left.

The Deli Store Guy, who asked me if I could buy Enfamil for his baby. I didn’t realize how expensive baby formula is. The cashier asked, “Are you sure?” I bought it for him anyway.

Two Young Professionals, whose commute aligned with mine for two days in a row. Myrtle-Willoughby G to the Metropolitan L, into Manhattan, get off at 14th Street. One had a tattoo above his right elbow on the back of his arm, I tried hard to read it, both mornings.

A Fast-Walking Lady, who told me she was walking very fast because she has to pee.

The Sick Child, whose projectile vomit expelled out of his small body, onto his sister, and the seats. His Mother profusely apologized to everyone around. She cleaned frantically. The smell lingered.

A Woman in a Window, who leaned precariously out of her apartment, warmly calling out to her friend on the street, extending the neighborhood to be a part of her home, and her personal affairs.

The Just-Moved-In-Together Couple, while roaming Ikea one asked the other: “If you’re in a singles club and you meet someone in the singles club, do you have to quit the club?” Great question.

The Homeless Man, masturbating in the street.

The Teenage School Kids, talking about which pronouns are correct for someone they just met.

The Police Officers, who pulled me over for running a red light on my bike. Pretty lame. And the Taxi Driver who honked at me, despite being in a shared bike lane. I flipped him off.

A Baby Girl, who relentlessly said “Hi” to everyone, blissfully unaware of the thick discomfort which evaporated into the air from the adults around her, all of us smashed together on the hot, humid subway platform.

My One-Night-Stand’s Roommate, who I ran into twice at JFK Airport. Apparently, we both frequented San Francisco.

The Bike Commuter, who stopped along his ride over the Williamsburg Bridge to help me fix my stalled, rusty chain.

The Crying Woman, whose sadness filled the whole bus and overflowed across the street to reach me, standing on the sidewalk in the rain as she passed by.

A Celebrity, buying groceries at a market in Chelsea, dressed in a long, flowy all-black ensemble, with a slicked-back hairdo and heels. He towered over the cashier.

The Professor, at the print shop, who told me people push each other in front of trains all the time.

A First-Date Couple, very uncomfortable in a too quiet coffee shop, where I hear all of the awkward exchanges including, “Do you like roller coasters?” “Ummm, I guess.”

A Performer, in the street with large headphones, in his own space, dancing with the song we could only see and not hear.

They don’t know me nor do I know them. We’re all mixed up in this place, uncoordinated. As if everyone in the world came across a note saying: “Meet here” and showed up.

For a fraction of time our worlds intersected. A moment of their lives, embedded in my memory. Sometimes I imagine; there must be small fragments of me, floating around with other people.

Colleen Arce
Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade