Our entire day can be remembered in a few seconds. It is funny how a day is comprised of twenty-four hours, but when we reflect on our day; filtering through the wakeup, the commute to work, the trivial conversations, eating, ordering Starbucks, the walk to the car, the traffic, the phone calls and text messages, the gym, the cocktail party, watching the news, or reading a book, it can be remembered in a few seconds. Which makes sense when people die. It is said, “your entire life flashes in front of you.” Apologies for being morbid. But it makes sense, right?
Maybe that is why movies and books appear chronologically logical. They only highlight the significant, life-altering moments, the choices that shift the direction of where we assume we’re going, the conversations paramount to our existence, the fears overcome, the connections made. The stories lure us in, tempting us to turn the page, hungry for a benevolent or happy outcome… but always the outcome, the ending. But we shouldn’t hurry to get there, because once we reach the end, it’s over.
But no, life isn’t that perfect, reality is what happens between the lines of a book, the scenes in a movie. We can’t cut, rewind, pause or erase. We must move forward…. And when we look back, we can barely remember anything at all. Words sometimes flow and other times they get stuck in my throat. I want to get as much out as possible, because my memory will quickly forget the details.I found this little missive (circa 2005) and thought it was worth sharing.....
October, 2005
The weekend in New York was a blur, staring at the photographs of my friends and me laughing while throwing our scarves into the air, hit me as though that blond girl, FYI- me, decked out in a Burberry rain coat was somebody else. Puffing the cigar belonging between my girlfriend’s fingers; skimming the crowds for celebrities,
pretending to be cool in a world so far away from childhood. Recovering from our deliciously fun Friday night, rendezvousing with old friends and drinking champagne into the wee hours, we were having dinner at a restaurant. I neglected to bring my purse in the stall with me. I left it on the counter where my girlfriend was standing and talking on her cell phone. Washing my hands, and grabbing my satchel my eyes scanned the crowd outside the restroom where she had left to finish her phone call. Scampering to catch a taxi, my watch reminding and that if I didn’t hurry I would miss the Amtrak train to Boston.
The first car that pulled over was a regular sedan, the man hunched over the worn leather of the steering wheel demanding where to drive in a bulky Arabic accent.
“Penn Station, please sir.” I stammered. The Beatles starting belting “yesterday” from my cell phone, my sister had downloaded the new ring, when the music hit the drivers ears the cab nearly collided with a bus next to us, as the bus driver shot us the finger with one hand, and pounded the horn with the other.
A profanity or two escaped the mouth of the Arabic man in the front seat. Catching my apologetic expression in the review mirror for my boisterous phone ring, he softened.
“ So, why are you visiting New York?” He questioned.
“Just visiting some girlfriends.” I explained.
He nodded. Probably not the first time he’d heard that answer.
The traffic from Chelsea was a nightmare; twenty minutes later pulled up to the train station. Rummaging through my bag for my wallet, I frantically discovered an empty space. My wallet was missing. How was I going to pay for this cab, get on my flight home without my id? The innards of my stomach began to turn inside out; nausea hit me as the vision of me laughing in the stall, and abandoning my purse by the soap dispenser with my friend, who had walked outside. There were a dozen girls in that restroom, the vision quickly entered my brain, and sobs began to exit my mouth. I quickly called information and then the restaurant; the manager said that no wallet had been turned in.
Gulping loudly, I began to cry, “Sir, my wallet was stolen. I’m so sorry I don’t know what to do, I need to catch my train to Boston.”
An angry, thunderous voice responded, “Are you sure, do you want to look again.” He thought I was lying. I wasn’t telling some counterfeit excuse to avoid the fee, how was I supposed to get on the airplane if I didn’t even have a license. Sweat mixed with tears stung my cheeks, and I pleaded. “Sir, I’m just going over to that policeman over on that corner to explain the situation.”
Fuming with frustration at my inability to pay the forty-seven dollar cab fee, I was freaking out… My two girlfriends were already en route to Connecticut and I didn’t know of any banks that would get wired money on a Saturday night. I sprinted in my three inch boots, not conducive to running, toward the uniformed officer. Bewildered by my construed appearance, he patiently listened. “I don’t know what to do, my wallet was stolen, I have to pay the cab fee, I have no credit cards or cash, I just have a train ticket waiting for me at will call.” The police officer was trying to piece together my story with the minimal information I had spat at through my mangled sobs.
A cumbersome figure dressed in a turban appeared next to me, towering over the police officer. “This girl has tried to rip me off, she thinks she does not have to pay for her fee over here.”
Blubbering into my cell phone to my mother, who was trying to hear me over the loud voices of the policeman, cab driver, and the sirens and street merchants, the line suddenly went dead. The demise of my battery had just ended any hope of wiring cash. Besides offering my earrings or watch to this beastly driver, who wouldn’t accept my offer to send him a payment the next day, I felt a tap on my left shoulder.
Through the dark night, the streetlights illuminated gentle eyes. A guy in his twenties stepped into the Bermuda triangle of confusion (the police officer, driver and myself). Me, lugging my red valise, watching the Good Samaritan quietly slice the tension.
“I’ve been listening to the situation from over there,” pointing only a few feet away, where a few people stood, clearly interested in the scene I had caused. “It sounds as though this girl, uh woman, needs to catch her train to Boston, how much is the fee for the cab?” He then looked toward me for approval.
Unsure if we heard correctly, the three of us collectively responded, “huh?”
“Well, it appears this girl will miss her train, so I would like to pay for her cab since she had her wallet stolen, is that correct?”
“Yes, Yes, I left my purse sitting on the counter, where I thought my friend was standing, and wallet with my credit cards, cash, and ID was stolen.” I confessed, wishing anybody would believe me.
His kind face nodded with understanding; he reached into his overall pocket. Wait overall, yes overall. This twenty-something stranger was wearing overalls, even in the midst of crisis; I noticed his out-of-the-ordinary appearance.
The large Arabic man turned to the young savior, “It was forty-seven dollars, without the tip,” in a flat, nonchalant voice.
“Without hesitation, he pulled out two twenties and a ten, placing the cash in the palm of the angry man.”
Speechless and still sobbing, I threw my body into the arms of overalls, proclaiming, “I don’t know how to thank you, oh my gosh, thank you, thank you. I’m so embarrassed, I don’t know what to do, give me your number and address, wait what is your name?”
Watching the drama unravel, the police officer ushered the pulsating crowd aside, gave the guy a pat on the back.
“My name is Matt. You’d better hurry if you want to make your train.” The guy in pinstripes said.
Not having any paper with me, I handed him the book I had been reading; begged him to write his address in the back, so I could compensate properly.”
As he scribbled his information on the last page, I gathered my belongings. I looked up at this man in pinstripes, so curious as to what persuaded him to do such a nice gesture?
Giving him one last, uninvited hug, I ran off into the autumn night. To the train terminal, I was determined to make it to Boston.
Settling into a warm booth in the economy section of the train, the man checking tickets began to wink at me, until he noticed my smudged eyes and tear-stained cheeks. He asked if I was okay. I nodded. I was desperate to crawl into a happy dream that didn’t include an angry taxi driver.
Before my sleepy brain could succumb to the gentle cadence; the hum of the train on the train tracks, I remembered Matt had written his information down. I fumbled to find my book; my puffy eyes fell onto the last page.
The words scrawled in black ink read, “It’s Karma. Good luck with your travels.”
Goosebumps quietly crawled against my shoulder and every hair on my arms stood erect. I had no way to reach this man, to thank him. A soft smile spread across my face realizing that Karma was in my hands. A situation would soon arise, a scene would soon unfold where I could hand it off to somebody else....
