I step aside for New York's mover's and shaker's, continually stop and let people pass.
My inability to get a move-on has led to
lingering conversations with odd-balls.
I find myself having lazy conversations with people I would normally ignore.
Having my bike fixed on 39th and 10th,
leaning over the counter, slack jawed,
I learned that my bike mechanic used to be fat.
He's slim now.
On the elevator my blonde preppy lady neighbor (who I hadn't spoken to in 9 years) confessed she gave up her dogs to a young couple on Riverside Park.
Her daughter left for prep school this year and it was too hard to take care of them by herself.
I nod in solemn agreement.
Loss, change, what is best sometimes hurts. Yes.
And at the MOMA, at the members desk. Talking to an off beat young man (art major I presume).
He looked like Eddie Monster and kind of sexy in a loner unsteady way.
He answered my questions about the film I was planning to see, with shy intensity.
As if most of his life he'd been told to shut up and was only now getting over the humiliation.
He talked a lot about the film. Looking away and down through all of his information giving.
Since I was tired and didn't want to go to my film, (just yet)
I asked him,
(not really caring- I just wanted to see sexy, shy Eddie, articulate information)
"hey uh, ...who picks these films, anyway?"
Maybe he knew what I was up to because all I got was,
"the curatators"
and I walked away nodding but unsatisfied.
On the buses of New York, EVERYONE talks to each other.
Old ladies who are skin and bones and have tall yellow hair living in walks-ups in the east 30s with no dish washer, washing machine or air-conditioner. (I imagine)
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