Today, a parade celebrates the Giants’ Super Bowl win. From my 33rd floor office window, I hear honking and see rowdy specks of people marching/standing/bunching together. I don’t get it and have no desire to pass by the remains of the crowd on my lunch break. But I turn to the window when my co-workers do and wish I could get that excited about something I had nothing to do with.
Sunday, a mother and daughter on the subway allow a guy to put his small shopping bag in a crack that would be an open seat, if the people sitting down were compact enough to only occupy one seat. Someone gets up, transforming the crack into an almost full seat. The guy motions for me to sit down. I keep his bag beside me while he shuffles and shimmies and practices the moonwalk to a song only he can hear.
Last Wednesday, a gust of wind hits me as I leave my apartment and head for work. The monthly Metrocard I am holding flutters away and settles precariously on top of a sidewalk grate. I exclaim, “Oh!” and squat down to appraise the situation. Should the wind momentarily blow the card up, it will slip through and fall out of reach. Expensively out of reach, where it will taunt me from the sludge below ground forever. Gingerly, I grab the card so as not to push it through the grate myself. When I stand back up, I put it into my zippered pocket. I can’t help thinking I’ve experienced some kind of redemption from something bigger than New York City.
