Who in the world designed those SUVs anyway? The ugliest damn things on the face of the earth. A big silver grille and a ram on the hood. As if they’re heading off to war. And why in the world are they needed anyway? It’s not as if she’s heading across the Rockies, flooding rivers and endless jungle.
— It’s always Jersey, Sally.
— Sir?
— It’s always a Jersey license plate.
— You take your sweet time, Mr. J. Don’t mind her. We can stay here until Sunday if we want.
— We might get snowed in.
How many mornings, noons, and nights have I walked up and down this street? How many footsteps along this same path? When I was young and nimble and slick I would dart across the road in the Dublin traffic, horse carriages, bicycles, milktrucks and all. Jaywalking. Jayshuffling it is, now. The jaybird. Mr. J., indeed. On the Upper East Side. A lot of volume in this life. Echoes too.
— Just fine.
Sally’s hand lies steady on his elbow now. Gripping rather hard into what is left of the muscle. The walking stick in his other hand, propping him up and propelling him along. And why is it that the mind can do anything it wants, yet the body won’t follow? What a wonderful thing it would be to live as a brain for a little while. To be perched in a jar and see it all from there. Without the rigors of the meshuggeneh mansion? A pure clean life. On a shelf. In a row of shelves. Not stuck out here, shambling in the snow, watching the red man flash and the New Jersey lady fume, and listening to her horn beep, and the whole of New York City build up behind her.
— All right, lady, all right.
— Shut up! says Sally with a glare.
The woman yanks the steering wheel hard and then pulls out around him. The tires spin in the light crust of snow. Time nor tide wait for no woman. Especially if she’s from Trenton. Or Wayne. Or worse yet, Newark. Good God, but she’s in a rush.
Maybe off for a dalliance somewhere who knows, maybe even a tryst with his very own Elliot. How come that boy never learned to keep his equipment in his trousers?
The red man is static now. Not even flashing. A Geronimo of the avenue. Wasn’t the neon sign a different color back once, long ago? Wasn’t there a large neon hand once? Or is there still? There most certainly was a Walk, Don’t Walk. It was so very New York, the insistence of it, the brash instruction. Walk or else. There was another sign also: Don’t Even Think of Parking Here. And once, long ago, he saw a sign in Hell’s Kitchen that said: Park Here, Motherfucker, and You Will. Which was funny, even if grammatically unsound. Park here and you will park here? Or park here and you will fuck your mother? Or both? Or neither? Or something in between?
Oh, no matter, Your Honor. Just get across the street. All Wimbledon rules have been suspended.
Another loud beeping. The traffic on the far side of Eighty-sixth has begun to move towards him. A Sikh in a taxi. Hold your turbines, sir. Good God, a pull of pain through his knees. A fierce tightness in the shoulders. His hips feel as if they’ve been lowered down into cement. We were young once, Sally. It’s like crossing the Styx.
One foot after the next. That’s all you should think about. One step at a time. Like an Alcoholics Anonymous for geriatrics. Another curb. Borrow the crane. Avoid the grates at all costs. Don’t get stuck in the Styx.
And hallelujah, thank the heavens, he gets to the edge of the curb and stabilizes himself against Sally. Both of them breathing a little heavily now.
— They’re even worse if they’re Chinese.
— Hhhhrrrummmpf, she says.
— It’s a well-known fact. The Chinese have the worst driving records. I don’t know why. They’re good people but they damn sure can’t drive.
— Is that so?
— If you ever meet a Chinese man from New Jersey, buckle up.
— You’re funny, Mr. J.
Which, quite plainly, he is not. She doesn’t even have the faintest of smiles. Out here, shivering. She’s not used to it at all. A couple of decades in New York and still she has the Caribbean sunshine in her bones. He should invite her to lunch. Always, every day, she accompanies him, and he brings her home some of Dandinho’s specially wrapped leftovers. She loves them. Twists them open. Puts the food on a plate. Microwaves it. Sits and watches soap operas on her little TV through the night. A tough life she has, Sally James. He would love, now, to see one of her enormous smiles. Something to crack open the day and whisk away the cold. But she’s intent on getting him down the road and squared away for his lunchtime ritual.
— On we go.
Moving like a tugboat. The flower shop, the chocolatier, the perfumery, the antique store, the wine shop, the handbag seller, the dry cleaners: everything the modern human needs.
Roll up, roll up. The shutters of life.
Hardly any pedestrians on the street today. A few delivery boys and a couple of hurrying mothers with their prams. One brave jogger wearing shorts, bouncing down the avenue like it’s August. Never understood that jogging phenomenon. Chest hair and headbands. Sometimes both at once. Snow in August. A good man wrote a book with that same title, what’s his name, he edited the newspaper once, was in love with Jackie O, so the rumor went anyway, or rather was she in love with him?
Sally on one side, the walking stick on the other. The hat on my head. The overcoat nice and toasty. The stomach rumbling and ready. What more could a man want? Eileen, Eileen, Eileen.
And I hate that, I truly do. Those hidden hats of dogshit left sprinkled on the sidewalk. Like little sombreros. Always in wintertime as well. A disgrace. All it takes is a doggie bag and a gentle scoop. Off with the sombrero and into the trash.
Land ahoy. The brown-and-orange awning. The large plate-glass windows. The beautifully scripted writing in the window. The small pleated curtains. The glow of round lamps. A home away from home. Pete Hamill, that’s the man.
— Careful now, Mr. J. Watch your step.
They pause a moment outside the handbag shop, and he leans towards her, sees a snowflake perch on her long eyelash.
— What time’ll I pick you up, Mr. J.?
— Elliot will walk back with me.
— You sure?
— Sure, I’m sure.
— Sure sure?
— I’m sure, Sally.
How many sures in a row? Love loves to love love. The little snowflake perched there on the ledge of her lash. Beauty comes and beauty goes.
— You know, I’ve never asked you, Sally.
— Sir?
— Which do you prefer? Salmon or steak?
She blinks and the snowflake is gone. Eyelashes. Towers. And why is it he always just brings her the leftovers anyway? Why is it that she gets the dregs of the day, the diapers too? He should buy her a whole plate and get it specially wrapped by Dandinho. Or even better, dress her up, take her out, celebrate her, she’s a good soul, Sally James, looking after her fine young nephew down there in Scarborough if I’m not mistaken, ah, the mind returns, yes, Tobago for sure, not Trinidad.