It makes sense that the majestic hill stretching from Eastern Parkway down to Empire Boulevard would be enticing while it’s devoid of traffic.
I spot a lone daredevil on in-line blades with a giant boombox balanced on his back. He is gliding down the hill at break-neck speed when someone else meandered into the street that caught my eye.
“Do you know where the closest bathroom is?” he asked. The elderly man had his red and white-tipped cane off the curb, arms stretched out like he knew I was relatively close.
I considered that he’s older and that I probably shouldn’t be that near to him. The lack of cars meant he wasn’t exactly in danger at that time in the morning. Still, the likelihood that he’d find what he was looking for on his own was small.
I looked at him, large graying afro and tiny shades across his brown nose, walking blindly across the street, and I couldn’t help but see my dad. I was only venturing out to see if the bank was still open, it’s not like I was rushing to go anywhere.
Catching the back of his arm, I gently guided him out of the street. “Is the laundromat open? That third store over there,” he said.
I reminded him that mostly everything up and down the block was closed because of the coronavirus. The laundromat was open though, so we tried there, and the next open store, and the next one two blocks down.
Each slow step of his had him growing more dismayed and desperate, even while he cracked jokes and made conversation. The few people walking by shouted his name in greeting, and he stopped, angled his head towards the sound to wave at whoever it was.
The supermarket, the one bustling store on the avenue, turned him away too. The bathroom was apparently in the basement and he’d be a liability.
We were almost to the bottom of the hill when another laundromat, in the cut of two closed restaurants, had its door open. I asked the older woman sitting by herself if there was a bathroom in there. She confirmed there was, but it’s locked and you had to pay for it.
“Please, it’s for my grandpa. He can’t see,” I said. He added that he’d pay for it. That he’d pay anything.
She paused for a second, before gingerly reaching into her wallet to give him a laundry card with the code to the door on it. The laundromat was narrow and long with the bathroom door at the back, with several carts in front of it. We waited in silence as he used it.
The trip back up the hill to the 99 cent store was considerably lighter. He joked about his days as an amateur boxer in what I imagine was the 60s or 70s. Substitute gramps is certainly tall enough to have been an athlete at some point.
“One fight, this boy came out, and he was shaped like a ‘V’,” he said as he gestured with the cane. “I hit him with a left. Hit him with a right. And after I woke up, I said, ‘What happened?’ That boy hit me so hard, pee ran up my leg.” He laughed heartily at his own loss.
We finally made it back to Carroll Street, where this whole side adventure began. As he said his goodbyes and thank yous, he held his hand out in my direction. I didn’t have gloves. I couldn’t help but silently chuckle about how he clearly didn’t get the memo about the state of the world, and not for the first time I wonder where his people are who left him on his own like this.
Not shaking is just as much for my sake as it is his. It’s not like the virus can’t get both of us. Though if I’m being technical, the last half an hour would have probably been enough in terms of closeness with a stranger. Not shaking the man’s hand goes against every lesson that has been beaten into me. Be nice to the old. Firmly shake hands when offered. Blase, blah.
In the last few months, I’ve seen more New Yorkers blatantly hostile to the homeless, any Asian person, or God forbid, an old man with a cough. Not that people were particularly nice to begin with, it’s safe to say social politeness has come and gone. So it’s perplexing to find someone in the dead center of a health pandemic that’s still holding out his wearied hand.
I briefly wonder if that’s just how he sees the world. My dad uses his hands as eyes for everything. To feel if there’s more food on his plate. To make sure the walls haven’t moved into his path again. To attempt to read.
Maybe he’s just trying to see me. We shake hands goodbye, and a ways down the block, I rub a few drops of sanitizer on them.
