I Still Think of That Man
A couple of months back, I’m sitting in a coffee shop on Amsterdam Avenue. My ankles are shot, my knees are practically screaming at me. Don’t ask me why I thought it’d be a good idea to walk from Harlem to Seventy-Second. Used to be, I could do that walk without breaking a sweat. Now, everything’s gone to hell.
Anyway, I’m staring out the window when this guy walks in. I don’t pay him much mind, but the place is real quiet you know? So, it’s hard not to listen. I mean, I’m not the type of person that eavesdrops but sometimes there’s nothing you can do. And this guy he’s really loud. He’s got no, uh, what do you call it? Self-awareness.
So he’s talking to the cashier, the barista — he’s asking them all sorts of questions. I mean the guy sounds like he’s running for fucking mayor. Then he orders a coffee. Black. Not like I care, but like I said, the place is quiet, especially for a weekday. He grabs his drink and looks for a seat. Now, the place is a hole in the wall so figuring out where to sit shouldn’t be that hard. There are two round tables in the corner and a sad-looking couch that ought to say, “bed bugs” in the back. All the same, the place is empty. Not counting where I’m sitting of course.
So what does he do? He takes the stool right beside me! I mean, you gotta be fucking kidding me right? Not like New York is the poster child for personal space or anything but let a guy breathe. And it’s not like I don’t like people, but sometimes you just need to be alone you know?
So, we’re sitting there. And I’m trying real hard to just stare straight ahead. I mean I’m practically sweating. I haven’t concentrated this hard since I tried to get in Erica Finley’s pants in the eleventh grade. Cause I know if I look anywhere in his general direction he’s gonna take it as a sign I wanna talk. And I got nothing to say to this fucking guy. I’m sorry, but it’s just been one of those days.
He starts shifting in his chair, clearing his throat — he even makes a couple of rhetorical comments. “Freezing out there,” “Where is everybody today?” — that kinda thing. But I’m not taking the bait. I just want to rest my knees and catch my train.
But then he says something that forces me to turn. Out of nowhere, and I mean fucking left field, he says, “This I believe: that the free, exploring mind of the individual human is the most valuable thing in the world.” And I turn to him like he just looked into my soul. “Steinbeck,” I say. And he looks back like he knew all along. “That’s right,” he says, smiling. “You a fan?” Am I a FAN?! I’m thinking. John Steinbeck is the only reason I’m still here. The Grapes of Wrath, East of Eden, The Pearl, Cannery Row, Tortilla Flat, Sweet Thursday, To a God Unknown. I mean, you take away those books and I’m not sitting here. Period. Those stories, his words, were the first time I felt seen — that someone else in the world thought the things I’d thought — felt the things I felt.
We end up talking for the next three hours but not just about John Steinbeck. We go to the moon and back. Family, politics, how much New York has changed, where the country is going — EVERYTHING. This guy turns out to be one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met. We’re there so long they start wiping down counters and stacking chairs trying to close down the place. And to think all I wanted was to stick a sock in this guy.
Then, just before we leave he tells me he’s waiting on test results from the hospital. He doesn’t go into detail. He doesn’t have to. I could tell whatever it was, it wasn’t good. “Man, I am scared,” he says. And then it dawns on me. This guy isn’t talking to everybody because he likes the sound of his own voice. He’s talking because he needs to be heard.
I didn’t know what to say, you know? When I was younger I’d have just gone on about some bullshit. But now, if I don’t know what to say, I don’t say anything. Sometimes the best thing you can do for someone is just shut your mouth and listen. Only something told me, this wasn’t one of those times. He needed me to say something — anything. “I have a feeling you’re gonna be alright,” I told him. It was the only thing I could think of. But here’s the thing, it’s really how I felt. I mean, he deserved to be right? This was a good man. A respectable man. A man with the courage to open his heart and let it all fucking bleed. Here he was laying it all out on the line telling a complete stranger he was afraid to die.
It started to snow. We walked a few blocks together before stopping on the corner of Sixty-Sixth and Amsterdam. What’s strange is I didn’t feel any more pain in my knees. He thanked me for listening even though I was the one who felt indebted to him. For what, I don’t know. His humanity? We hugged before going our separate ways. I never found out what happened to him. Part of me is afraid to. I just hope one day I walk back into that place and see him sitting on that same stool talking Steinbeck with someone else. It’s strange to say, but, I still think of that man.
