A Man on 32nd

There was an old man barely able to lift his feet, even with the help of the metal walker he propped his gaunt body against.  He nearly glowed white, so painfully thin was the flesh that surrounded his skeleton.  He was pushing ninety, maybe more.  He was alone, in a tissue thin white undershirt and shorts that struggled to cling to his hips.

It was evening rush hour and every cab whirred right by his raised arm.  A group of three young men, probably Irish, maybe visitors from New Zealand, slowed down their gaits, unsure as to whether they should lend a hand.  In fact, it was their pausing at the corner of a busy subway intersection that turned my attention to the old man in the first place.  "What can we do?" one asked.  "He needs a cab," the second said, stating the obvious.  Then silence among the three friends as they looked sadly in his direction.

I should mention that it was suffocatingly hot on this particular day last week.  I started to wonder if the man might have a heat stroke standing there.  A cab would not stop for him.  Even with the walker, he seemed like he might tip over if a cab drove by too close to his frame.  They often do that in this city, you know.  He was clearly agitated.  What remained of his gray eyebrows arched fiercely.  Out of frustration, a bony hand waved without aim.  Probably from the heat, probably from the helplessness of the moment, certainly from being old, from being overlooked by urbanites too busy trying to make a living to be bothered by the task of helping an old man into and out of their cab, the man grew visibly impatient.  His angry, punctuated mutterings kept every fellow pedestrian at bay.  Meanwhile, orange yellow blurs whizzed by one after another.

The three young men continued to hesitate indecisively before one of them finally declared defeat.  "There's nothing we can do.  He doesn't want help."  They walked along.

Shadows on Park Ave.  NYC.
Sunday.  12 August.