January 2003
I pushed the door of Night Cafe open calling out a “See ya later!” to my work buddies who were still shooting pool inside. It was cold again. Too cold again. I was underdressed for the weather again. I had told my roommate the day before, “Once you hit mid-January without buying a new winter coat, you kind of resign yourself to waiting ‘til next winter.” I puffed out fog as I walked west on 106th toward Broadway. A cab drove by too fast, honking at the van with the out-of-state plates, who, dammit, was in his way.
The bus stop shelter was empty, save for one man. He was in his late 30s, dressed mostly in denim, but with a black North Face coat. The hood of his coat was trimmed with fur, and I thought to myself that, if I had had a hood, I sure as hell would’ve had it tied tightly around my face, not hanging back like he had it.
The man was sinking into an imaginary chair, his knees bending slowly, his torso pitching steadily forward like a square rigger off its keel. His eyes were closed. I stood watching him unabashedly; he sure as hell wasn’t gonna notice. The invisible chair was so low. He was practically squatting when he jerked back to a standing position; his distracted puppeteer had suddenly regained his focus. Denim man’s eyes opened a crack and his body remained erect for a half-second before the comfy chair began to call him back. Again, he sank, unevenly, occasionally pulling up an inch. And again, just before capsizing into the gutter, the crown of his head shot upward.
The M60 lumbered up. I got on and watched the puppet-man until he was out of sight.
