Say the Word(15)
And yeah, maybe twenty years ago it wasn’t safe to walk around my block alone at noon, let alone in the middle of the night. But now, the yuppie real estate agents who rent out space in the refurbished brick walkups describe my neighborhood as “up-and-coming” and its tree lined sidewalks and freshly paved streets are the home to some of the city’s best restaurants, boutiques, and coffee shops. Young couples push strollers alongside a diverse but mostly cheerful — by New York standards, meaning no one flips you off on-sight — populace of ballet dancers, artisan crafters, and harried first-year interns.
The first time I stepped foot here I knew it was the place for me and, since I work my ass off at a shitty job all day to afford the outrageous rent for my tiny studio, I try to enjoy the atmosphere as much as possible. On the daily twenty-minute walk from my apartment in Hell’s Kitchen to the Luster main office abutting Central Park on W 57th, I soak in all the sights and sounds of the bustling city. Maybe it’s the residual tourist left within me — or, more likely, the deeply-ingrained southern manners that even city living can’t quite wash out — but I know the street vendors by name, and I greet each of them as I pass.
Okay, fine, I’ll admit that the main reason I know their names is because occasionally I may or may not indulge myself at the food carts that litter the avenues… Can you really blame me when Salim makes the best chicken cheesesteak sub in the entire city? Perhaps even the entire world?
But today, as I wandered down the busy block toward my apartment I absorbed nothing — none of the bustling crowds, the delicious smells, or the crazed, camera-toting tourists hoping to score a table at one of the exclusive bistros on Restaurant Row. I was stuck in my own head, lost in thoughts of a past life that seemed, now, dream-like and distant.
Today, there was no jaunty wave for Salim as I meandered past.
No bashful, responding smile for the group of construction workers on their lunch breaks when they whistled and catcalled at my passing form.
No chitchat or laughter with the gaggle of women who sold fresh fruits and veggies at the small farmer’s market.
Nope. Today, it was straight to the liquor store: do not pass go, do not collect $200.
Who cared that it wasn’t yet two in the afternoon? Today I’d adopt my mother’s life motto.
It’s five o’clock somewhere.
After purchasing two family-sized bottles of Merlot, I wandered into Swagat, the small convenience store on West 44th that served as my one-stop-shop for snacks, gum, and the occasional pint of ice cream. Owned by the Patel family, Swagat was located just around the corner from my small apartment on 43rd and open almost 24/7, the counter manned most frequently by the ancient, taciturn family matriarch Mrs. Patel, who had to be approaching approximately three or four hundred years old if the myriad wrinkles lining her face were any true indication of age. With a shock of thick silver hair she kept pulled back tightly from her temples with a shiny tortoise-shell clip, a wiry frail frame that belied the spirit in her dark eyes, and cheeks wrinkled like an apple long past its harvest, she was now a mere shadow of the lovely woman she’d undoubtedly been in her youth.
Though her son and daughter-in-law owned the store, both worked second jobs during the day, leaving Mrs. Patel in charge until six each evening — just about the time I usually popped in on my walk home from work. Stationed in a once-plush but now somewhat time-weathered velvet maroon chair by the cash register, Mrs. Patel moved infrequently and conversed even more rarely. She was always dressed to the nines in gorgeous antique saris and vibrant silk dresses that looked handcrafted, the colorful gowns skillfully sewn with impossibly small stitches. The only chink in her elegant facade was a heavy brown crocheted throw blanket she swaddled herself in from the waist down, which warded against the chill from the large section of refrigerated beverages abutting the counter.
She was the grumpiest woman I’d ever come across in my twenty-five years on this earth, a fact I determined without ever hearing her speak a word. Mrs. Patel’s body language spoke loudly enough for her. From her constant refusal to make direct eye contact to the haughty lift of her chin, it was abundantly clear that the elderly curmudgeon hated working her post at the counter only slightly less than she hated communicating with her customers.
Namely, me.
Most often during our interactions, I’d hand her several bills as she bagged my groceries and hold a fully one-sided conversation with the old woman in hopes that, one day, she might respond. Last year, when I’d come in for the first time and experienced her taciturnity, I’d assumed it was due to a language barrier rather than outright dislike. But now I was almost positive she spoke English — mostly because she was always watching reruns of General Hospital and Days of Our Lives on the small television she kept tucked away behind the counter — leaving me with the inescapable conclusion that she simply hated me. Most often, our “conversations” felt more like a hostage negotiation between a hostile, uncompromising insurgent and a largely ineffective but stubbornly dogged young officer of the law. I couldn’t help but think I’d look fantastic in a badge — though those black orthopedic cop shoes were a definite deal breaker.
Take last weekend’s late night snack run, for example:
“Hey Mrs. Patel, how’s it going?” I’d said, approaching the counter.
Silently loading my bag — okay, you got me, two bags — of Cool Ranch Doritos and pint of Ben and Jerry’s Half Baked ice cream into a reusable cloth grocery sack, Mrs. Patel did not deign to return my greeting.