Who Have You Spoken To Today A Story From My Misspent Youth
So, who have you spoken to today? Where do you direct that ever important gift of communication. Sure you speak to your co-workers, to your clients, to that stranger on the street asking directions - sure, you speak to those that enable you to move forward (or up). So a better question might be, who haven't you spoken to today?
For years I lived around the corner from a nursing home. In the summer there would be a wall of wheelchairs sitting under the awning in front. In the winter, behind sheer curtains and dimmed lamps, that same wall appear beside the windows watching the world go by. As seasons changed so would the faces, yet, the wall would remain strong. I was much younger and less proactive then, but even in my self-involved youth, I knew that this was a wall of loneliness.
When I was younger still, 14 years old if I remember correctly, I was feeling so much more optimistic and hopeful that the world was fair, I had met someone who has stayed with me always.
My ex worked across the street from Grand Central Station, so I found myself frequently making my way through the grand hallways of that great building. Seated outside, in good weather and bad, was an old woman. She was always sitting with a cart filled with her entire world. She looked as short as she was round, and smiled at everyone as they busily rushed past here. Occasionally a "pious" person would absently toss coins into an old cigar box at her feet - but, as she smiled and sped to thank them, they raced away deaf to her words.
After noting this scene a number of times, I ached for this small, pitiful soul smiling at everyone and no one. Hell - I resolved to smile back at her - someone had to. So, as I would shuffle on past her, we smiled at one another. At first mine was a purposeful and empty smile; however, over time, I felt me smile evolve and without realizing it, my face would shine with genuine anticipation and silent affection.
One day, as I walked toward the door where she held court to her people (none of which actually realized she was there) I noted that she was not there. The knot in my stomach was the alarm that my concern was escalating as I looked down Lexington for her familiar silhouette. Nothing! I entered and began looking up and down the vast hallways and catacombs of entrances, platforms, and tunnels. Nothing! I approached a woman who was either homeless or had endured a truly horrific commute. I asked if she had seen the old woman - and as I described her - was met with "Oh, Mama". Mama? She had not. I was crestfallen as I sulked out of the station and back into the light of day. For days this was my new routine, and for days there was no change. I began to see what I had never considered before - she was gone.
I mused on my own feelings about this tragic turn of events. I regretted deeply never speaking to this small, wrinkled, smiling woman. Then, as if the week was nothing more than a commercial interruption, she had returned. Sitting sentry at her door as if she had never left at all. I was absolutely ecstatic.
I approached "Mama" with all of the tact of a teenager, and asked, "Where were you?!" She laughed as she lit up with a smile that morphed her face from my estimated hundred year old face to a face that was no more than my own Grandma's age. Her smile was infectious. She explained how, after a bad night of coughing and shivering, a police officer had her brought to Bellevue (which I had understood to be the loony bin - sorry but political correctness had not been born yet). She had left her belongings hidden where she slept and went off for the hospital.
We then began our dialogue. We talked about things. The people on the street, the children she had lost when young, the friends she had inside the station and the friends I had outside. These "things" which were small to some but was enormous to the old round woman and the wannabe tough teenager seated beside her. On occasion I would notice someone glaring our way, and before I even realized it I was on my feet and ready for combat. Each time, as the situation depressurized, I would get "the talk" about the importance of patience. I hated the lecture but loved the lecturer so, slowly, I began to demonstrate this thing called patience.
One day I had approached Mama to see her almost gleeful about something. She beckoned me as though I were walking in slow motion, so I, of course, hurried. She proudly presented me with a suit. (Okay it's important to remind you that I was still in my early teens and, having raised myself, was quite naive in some ways. Also, as a young female teen, I was more than a little obsessed with how I looked.) Now, with that being said, I should also add that the suit was a red plaid. I eyed the suit as though it were something foreign and frightful, until I saw the concern creep across her face, "I LOVE it" I said. I rushed home (down the block) and put this suit on (this is where naive comes in - I really should have washed it). I returned to Mama who could not be happier. As she laughed and clapped, I turned and modeled - what a sight were we.
Time passes though, and after a while we had moved from midtown to Brooklyn. At first I would go and visit Mama while the ex worked across the street, for a while anyway. As more time passed, and the winter's chill set upon me, I stopped taking the trip into the city. Before I even realized it, I put aside thoughts of Mama, as many children do when they grow (and judging by the nursing home wall - many adults do as well).
A few years later I was reading the paper to see an article about a homeless woman who was found dead inside of Grand Central Station. The article said, she had been called Mama by the locals.
I'll never forget this beautiful, and important, woman who gave to me of her meager possessions. I will always remember that day, turning and modeling as she clapped her hands with glee.
So, again, who have you spoken to today?
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