The Long Way

If the weather is anywhere north of 71 degrees and mildly cool, I’ll leave work early and take the long way home. I’m in luck. Today is 73.
It’s just about four in the afternoon and the sun is poking around the other office buildings, telling me to ditch my plastic keyboard and sneak for the subway. Look how warm everyone is, the sun whispers. They really are. So I dash for the exit.
At the turnstile my flimsy metro card jams just long enough to watch my train pull away without me. Waiting in this dampened lair isn’t exactly the escape I envisioned but it’s alright. Another train should be coming soon. I take my time, stroll down the platform, and find a beam to lean on.
Behind me an old and unwashed couple sleeps. The bags next to them are stacked to mark the borders of their space but with so much stuff I can’t help but wonder if the sleeping duo are coming or going — if their bags are filled with things from outside the city or within.
The man startles awake and immediately locks eyes with me. His stare seems to suggest that I am to blame for his broken slumber, which is absurd. I’ve barely made a sound. Our eye contact breaks and he coughs a wet cough before twisting the other way. I turn myself around too. Moments later my train arrives and I hop on.
I hop off two stops early so I can walk through the old Polish part of town that has now collected an odd assortment of bodegas, dimly lit bars, and high-end antique furniture stores. I love this neighborhood. The streets are filled with people walking into stores with bags of money and out with bags of goods. The red brick buildings also have touches of green shrubbery which is a welcomed change of scenery from the empty commercial spaces that punctuate my usual walk home.
Getting off early also leads me to Delgado, my produce guy. The stands in this part of town tend to get the last crates off the truck which means they come cheap. This late in the week, the fruit has been picked over but as Delgado reminds me, “Ugly fruit have nutrients too“. I agree and grab the cherries because it’s April and the blueberries because for $1.49 a box, it’s like Delgado is paying me to get my antioxidants. I walk to the counter and pay in cash, just how Delgado likes it. He stares at me, then at my wallet, then at my fruit, and asks if my familiar face has been in here before. In lieu of a response I sigh. Then I show myself out.
The park isn’t much further, just another two blocks on the right. I make my way through the unmarked entrance with cherries and berries in hand, taking turns tasting each. I see an open bench thirty yards up the pathway that has my name on it.
City parks are an odd admission of guilt. They seem to confess the inadequacy of our concrete mazes. No matter how strong our appetite for silicon-based progress, we will never be satiated without a carved out slice of Mother Nature.
I grab a cherry by the stem, pluck it in my mouth, gnaw on the pit, toss the stem, spit the pit, and chew and watch. In front of me a toddler takes one too many steps forward as her mother yells for her to stop. The child turns around to wait.
Next to me, a young woman unplugs herself from her headphones and pulls out a half-finished copy of today’s crossword puzzle. She’s made good progress. The couple in the tight, black athleisure pass by again. I pop two blueberries in my mouth and gush them.
I like this place for more than just the leaves. Or the runners, strollers, and nappers. It’s all of it together — a subtle reminder that life can exist outside of glass rooms and away from black screens. Oh how much warmer these green curtains are than the stone drapes I left behind.
My cherries are all gone and the berries will soon follow. The woman next to me shuffles her crossword back into her bag. She pauses, then looks out into the park. I take the last of my antioxidants.
“Hey can I ask you something?” I twist her way.
She nods, slightly.
“Do you come here for your crossword puzzle or is your crossword just something to do while you’re here?”
“Where, the park?”
I hum to confirm.
“I guess I come here to do it.” The woman tilts her head and taps her paper. “I think I’m drawn to the trees but end up staying for the people.” She looks back to the park as if to assess her response and then back to me. “And what about you, and your fruit medley?”
I look down at the empty cellophane bag on my lap. “I like what you said. I think that’s probably right.”
Our silence hasn’t quite ripened yet, but my other half of the bench starts to collect her things. She stands up, and as she passes me by in the warm breeze she turns around to let me know, “Especially on a day like this one.”
