the horse whisperer

I cab to Tocqueville on 15th and 5th.

I'm meeting Phoebe and Adam.

We haven't checked in today. I remind myself in the cab - I should text Phoebe - " I'm on my way" - but I resist - I resist because I hate cluttering the moment with banal discourse, it ruins the day, the night. We said we'd meet. She'll be there. And she was.

The driver takes a crazy- assed route through midtown. When he drops off me off, I ask. "why not the west side highway and then straight across 14th? Why the urge to loop around midtown?" I hide my irritation to see if I can get an honest answer out of him.

The affable cabbie suggests I simply request that route next time.

"I don't know why I don't use the highway" he says, like he just considered it for the first time, "I don't know."

I get out of the cab on Fifth but the restaurant is down 15th. I'll have to climb up and down sidewalks. I will have to walk across a street.

I curse the cab driver for not delivering me to the exact address - when I hear my name.

"Charlie?"

"I look up from my feet, my canes, the sidewalk - and see Travi, Travi from the writing lab.

Travi has appeared from no where.

Like a hoke script, maybe she's here for a needed plot device.

"Charlie! How are you?"

"I'm good, I guess. I'm hanging in there."

I think that's the phrase I used.

Travi nods.

She understands - that this is the best I can do under the circumstances - that it is perfectly fine for me to say (anything I like) under the circumstances.

I add "I'm fine".

And I realize with my feeble voice, my canes, and my doomed disease, I must be a curiosity. I feel like a celebrity. I've always felt a little weird, a little different, and my illness merely adds a nimbus of further distinction.

Fifth Avenue is black and wet. It's eight. There aren't a lot of people around. I know this section of the city well because I worked on lower Fifth for years. Lower Fifth is ripe for martinis and raincoats.

"You never sent me the link to your blog."

"I didn't? Oh. Well send me your address."

"You didn't get my email?"

Travi looks kind and genuinely interested in my blog. I tell her I'll send it to her we say goodbye and I cane my way down 15th.

Tocqueville is on the ground floor. A beautiful young woman takes my parka. I'm wearing a poor man's blue blazer over a blue button down shirt. I'm dressed like I had to borrow something presentable to wear from the restaurant.

I see Adam and Phoebe at the bar. They look cozy in the warmth and privacy of the small restaurant bar.

My heart quickens, my eyes widen, my feet find their footing.

"Hellooo!"

Adam wears a coat to similar to mine - the tired blazer. We're trying just enough to pass. It's so insouciant. I feel proud.

Adam is drinking a real drink - a martini? a scotch and soda? Adam's relaxed. He belongs here. There is confidence here. I'm happy to be eating with (foodie noblesse oblige).

We're escorted into the one large rectangular dining room, candlelit, white linens, high ceilings, all male wait-staff in stuffy suits - dour expressions.

I'm looking forward to this. Their regular menu has appetizers for $30. Because it's restaurant week? Our three courses will cost a total of $35.

We order the suggested wines for each course. We sip, we compare, one smells of gasoline, another... cigarette smoke.

I have a Taurine (jellied chicken). Brisket (mouth watering) potatoes with horse radish (so good). Miniature cabbage (odd). Three delicate sorbets.

We taste the food like experts. We each test the miniature portions, each item described and noted.

As we dine, I realize I'm sitting with my former tennis partners. A couple of years ago I was bouncing around Central Park. I've become "the invalid" so easily. Was I born for this role?

I've been frustrated for so long that this new challenge seems a natural progression.

After desert and the sweet desert wine, like all good New Yorkers, we go our separate ways -back to the sobering street -to cash machines, to metro cards. The former intimacy dissolved into the harshness of the New York night.

I cab home and give Phoebe a lift to the subway.

When I get to my apartment building, a strange man greets me on the sidewalk.

He looks and acts like he might be a doorman out of uniform (but he's not). He tells me his name is Danny and he lives on the 17th floor. (Something isn't right, like he's a pervert).

And then I realize he's focusing on me because of my canes. He wants to help me but I resist.

"I got it, don't worry about it. Please don't take my arm."

He whispers, " its okay, let me help you, it's okay... god bless you."

I am a high-strung horse. He is the horse whisperer.