ON MY WAY

Her cell phone, like dozens of others rushing to the subway, is glued to her ear. Mine is in the Hudson River. I don’t even miss it. I feel loose and step to the song that is in my heart, ‘Come on a My House.’ Cheryl is waiting for me. I have to go downstairs to go Uptown. They are already full of candy wrappers, paper napkins, ads even they though they were swept probably an hour ago. A chunk of what looks like a vomited Milky Way sticks to my shoe. I almost fall but manage to grab the railing.

Click, click, click. The turnstile clicks non-stop. I am about to spin thru it when a disheveled beared man pushes me aside and goes ahead of me. A lady behind me, laden with a shopping bag, stands back a foot so I can go thru. There is no time to say ‘thank you’ but I manage to wave it. How I detest this ride but not as much as I would hate to have a car in NY City. The streets are reserved for strong-willed cab drivers and lunatics and those wealthy enough to have expensive parking spaces in their condo garages.

As expected, I have no choice and have to stand to reach the fourth stop, Cheryl’s. There is a commotion at the other end of my car. A female yells, ‘Rape! Rape!’ A few heads, including mine, look her way. The car screeches to a stop at that very moment. Whether she wants out or not, she ‘s pushed to the platform. There is no one to whom she can report the incident, no way for her to identify the hand that went up her skirt. I lose track of her as we pull away.

‘Wentworth, Cranston, 12th St.’ light up on the directory. My shoulder juts against a man carrying a violin case. He gives me a foul look. I apologize and squeeze my way to the exit door. A nursing mother, breast exposed, is sitting on a bench near the wall. Two toddlers are too close to the track. The mother jumps up, almost drops her baby, and screams for her children to come right back to her. They don’t move until I grab one by her fuzzy jacket. Her brother hits me in my back, almost knocks me over. I persevere and get them back to their mother where, surprisingly, a man gives her a seat on the bench next to where she had been. Her, ‘Gracias, senor,’ is welcome. I wink to her and am on my way to Cheryl.

It’s a short walk, down a tree lined street. Like a child, I hopscotch over the concrete lines. The girls jumping rope make fun of me and at the same time ask me in for Double Dutch. I daren’t. They would really laugh when I trip on the first try.

On the corner of Cheryl’s block is a florist. In a large green bucket against the window overly large pink peonies call my name. The sweet smell and beautiful pink will surely earn me an extra big hug. Laden down, I ring Cheryl’s bell. The ‘Entre’ unless you are a killer,’ comes over the mike.

And there she is leaning against the door. In her hand is a big bowl of fruit. Rosemary Clooney sings from her album, loud enough for neighbors to hear. ‘Come on a my house, a my house. I gonna give you, peach an a pear and a pomegranate, too’. She takes the peonies and I take the fruit.

Later we will take each other into her pink bedroom, finish the fruit and cuddle up until I have to go back on that damn subway.