I'm reading this book which is a memoir of a guy who lives in New York, and he's describing one scene when he's walking down Perry Street in the West Village, and a man in a wheelchair requests his help.

He's old and frail looking, and he needs someone to help him get upstairs to his apartment. He can't use his feet, so he asks the author to carry him up the stairs. This is sounding really familiar, I think, because it happened to me. I was walking with two friends, and the same man asked us the same thing. It's an odd request in New York, because you never quite know who is out to con you. A meek, harmless looking person could potentially be a murderer. It's like confusing the investment banker barking into his phone via a headset with the homeless bum who happened to have found a particularly sharp outfit, talking to himself.

I always find the scary looking people to be interesting and rather nice to talk to. I usually immediately trust them. I have some sort of reverse paranoia.

Anyway, we go through the routine the author describes in the book. Locking the wheelchair to the outside of the house, lifting up the man in the wheelchair, and carrying him up four flights of stairs into his house. My friend carries him, and I open the door. I go into the apartment to put his mail where he wanted it.

The place is a cozy west village apartment, with lots of light, and photographs upon photographs on the walls. It's mostly shots of dancers, some young women and presumably him as a young man. I think of the career he had before he became ill, and how he must have been a dancer, or a dance company photographer, or something artistic, beautiful, and creative. The whole thing makes me rather sad. Sad, but still slightly suspicious.

Having read about it in the book, it's nice to know that he is not a psycho... meaning that we didn't just luck out that there were three of us, and the thugs hiding in his closet couldn't take all of us. I was taking the train home but it was broken, so I got off to take the bus. The time was circa 3 am, and I walked to the turnstyle behind some too-cool people: yes, it was at Broadway Lafayette in soho. There was a guy at the turnstyle (the tall variety) who asked me to swipe him through. I obliged, of course, and as he was walking through, he turned, ostensibly to thank me, and stopped.

"Are you German or Jewish?" he asks. I get this all the time -- god knows why -- and they are usually right, or close. I don't look Russian, I don't particularly look semitic, I guess I just look a little foreign.

I say, yes, I'm Jewish, but not German. I'm Russian, why? He gets an incredulous look on his face. He's really happy to have found a fellow Russian Jew. Except that he is black and speaking with a sort of Carribean accent. "My ex-wife was German Jewish!" he beams. He's a little drunk.

We start talking about his ex-wife, his old job on Wall Street, and how the dudes who walked out before me wouldn't swipe him through. Then he tries to walk through but the swipe's expired. I say, what the hell, let's talk for 17 minutes and I'll swipe you through again. This time we discuss Israeli politics. I'm surprised at his clarity and even more amased that he shares my sentiments. His statements are peppered with "I don't agree with everything Sharon does, but..." and I feel like it's coming out of my own mouth.

I tell him I have to catch the bus. He gives me his email address and I swipe him through again. We shake hands. It made my night. I haven't emailed him yet. Will he remember me?

Necessity.
Idiocy and other virtues.

ennui without order

• bike snob NYC
• ultraclay
• a tam in australia
• new york hack
• mikebot
• eurotrash
• this fish needs a bicycle
• on the face
• spicy children
• myasorubka
• massive red-eye
• jewschool
• malapoesia
• patently silly
• waiter rant

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