strangers

I have about a dozen stranger friends. In my solipsism, they seem to have only one place to be, one job to do, frozen in my own little snow globe. But I know that isn't true. I know they don't always wear a certain style of dress or uniform. I know that they have bad days, can get angry, and sad, and aren't always smiling and waving.

Still, seeing them delights me.

There was a time when New York was very lonely to me. I rode subways to nowhere. I went to bookstores until they closed and coffee shops until my eyes were closing. I remember one Saturday night standing with a bunch of spectators watching street performers in Union Square. I had nowhere to go and no one to talk to, but I didn't want to be alone.

But I've brought my world closer to me. I have a lot of very real friendships and I also have these stranger friends with whom I share a type of friendship, something so frail and surface-y on inspection, but still satisfying. When I catch one of these stranger friends on the sidewalk, or behind the glass of a store, or in the walking a dog, looking at me and catch myself looking back at them, I feel cared about and missed and important in a way that maybe isn't quite normal. Whether it's need or greed or just plain gratefulness, I can't really articulate. Some piece of me connects with some piece in each of them and it sparks.

lost

I was reading in my corner of doorspace on the subway about a month ago when somebody started shouting. I looked around for the voice and it came from a girl, a woman rather. She was sitting hunched over with her hair hanging in her face. And sceaming, "Stop hurting me. Leave me alone. Haven't you done enough." Nobody was touching her. Nobody was hurting her. The people sitting next to her got up and moved to the aisle.

At first I thought it might be some kind of sociological experiment. Let's see if there's anyone in New York that gives a damn about a stranger. I did, I really thought she was testing us. But the way she stamped her feet, clamped her ears and the way the screams ripped out of her with the force of some deep living thing being wrenched over and over from her insides, the more clear it became that this was not an act.

People weren't unkind. I don't remember any ugly looks or anyone laughing. I remember at one stop, the doors opened and a woman, seeing the empty seat next to the shouting girl sat down. No one did anything to warn her. What could we say? But the gut wrenching screams began again, "Stop hurting me.LEAVE MEEEE ALOOOOONE." And like everyone else, she stood up. The ride continued this way for another fifteen minutes. The stamping, the shouting, she was wearing her throat down and our ears were ringing.

I kept waiting for someone to do something, to sit beside her, to tell her that it was going to be okay. I know there were other people in that car that did care. I cared. I thought I might try, might put a hand on her shoulder. But I was too scared. I don't know if I was more scared of what she would do or what everyone else would think.

The woman was wearing khakis and one of those airy Indian blouses, with a messenger bag. Her hair was dirty blond. She wasn't old. She was close to my age. She wasn't homeless, wasn't drunk or on drugs.

I got off the same stop of the train as she did. I tried not to watch her but I wanted to see her face. I still wanted to say something or do something, but I didn't know what. In the end I did nothing. I did see her face though, as she turned a corner, and it wasn't scary or ugly or mean. It was lost.
(photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/risus_in_silva/2306446413/sizes/m/)