“Fortune”

On a recent trip to my home (country), with a stop-over in New York City, I had the following experience. I met a man wearing an orange suit jacket, purple pants, a gray tie and white shoes. This is NYC, I thought; there’s nothing unusual in NYC. Right? The thing is, there is nothing unusual in NYC as long as what-ever-may-be happens to others. You see, I saw that man in the strange suit numerous times while traversing the streets of NYC. The first time I saw him was probably the beginning of it all. I was having lunch in a Chinese restaurant – he was outside across the street begging for cigarettes. He was obviously good at what he does and the suit obviously helped him. He chain smoked. When I came out of Macy’s to find some relief in the sticky July air, I could see the suited man on the corner of Broadway nipping popcorn from a clear plastic bag and smoking. In the evening after a show or a visit to an “escort”, I saw the man again but this time he was drinking from a bottle wrapped in grocery-store quality brown paper and – you guessed it – smoking. This happened for three days straight. I kid you not. On the morning of the fourth day, needless to say, I was a bit worried about what would/could happen regarding this odd and unknown acquaintance. Not only was I in NYC but the atmosphere of America, my home country, obviously still hung-over from the party that is/was the beginning of a new century, was starting to look different. Had I been abroad too long? Was my expatriation starting to play havoc on my desire to go home? Had I simply missed out on a new fashion? On top of that, for whatever shopping spree reason, could my fate somehow rest in the bright colored persona of a man who was obviously stalking me? Yes, paranoia does come with age, I’ve been told. Yet whenever I look at or listen to my parents – even after all these years – I continuously say: I won’t turn out like them. It’s nothing. Really. (At least) the world is not NYC.

Anwho.

It was my last morning in NYC. After the obligatory four dollar coffee and a few more smokes outside on the sidewalk near Washington Square, I trolleyed down the road to the subway. Before descending into the bowels of the great and lost city, lo & behold, the colorful man appeared. This time, though, he appeared right in front of me. Was I startled, you might ask. No. Like life, I suppose, everything happened so fast that there was no time to think. Hence, Descartes might not quite have gotten it right; he might have gotten it backwards, though. As quick as the colorful man appeared (with a somewhat awkward smell that was a mix between Old Spice and DOT4 transmission oil) he also quickly handed me what I thought at first was a ticket for the subway. Strange, I thought. That’s what I do. Not all the time but more than not, I will buy a subway ticket and after my daily travels give the ticket to someone who may or may not need it. There’s always some money left over on the ticket. It’s usually not much but at least it puts a smile on someone’s face… in NYC. Aghast. I wanted to turn and leave as quickly as I could. My luggage was already prepared to be carried down the steps, it’s tug-bar tucked away, the skateboard-like wheels burning with anticipation. The waste basket on the street corner was near enough that I could Michael Jordon the overly expensive coffee cup right into it. Swoosh. But to no avail. Before I could run away in anticipation and fear the oddly dressed man grabbed the upper part of my left arm and the chill of confrontation finally struck lightening in my chest cavity. Would this be the moment I had been fearing ever since I first visited the city that all my redneck friends from back home warned me about? You’ll get mugged, they said. But I couldn’t get away. The street seemed empty. Yes. And I was delusional – because there is no such thing as an empty street in NYC – not even at six o’clock in the morning. Or? And then I heard his voice:

“Hey brother,” the oddly dressed man said. “Don’t you remember me? You gave me your subway ticket the other day. I wanted to thank you but you ran off so quickly. Here ya go. Returning the favor. Have a nice trip where ever you’re going. Bye now.”

I don’t remember smiling back at him. But I do remember seeing him being picked up by a van with the name “Private Party” and “Circus Clown Hire” painted on it. When I got down the long stairwell of the subway, I looked at what the clown put in my hand. I finally smiled. There was no reciprocating ticket, only three tapped together fortunes of the fortune cookies I had from my first day’s lunch. And then I recalled the moment in that Chinese restaurant. I had just finished eating. The waiter returned my change and put three fortune cookies in front of me on a little stainless steel tray. I methodically opened each cookie and lined the fortunes up on the tray. I thought: It’s not right to get three fortunes – life only needs one. And we should all cut back on the sweets. So I left my fortunes on the tray along with a comfortable tip for the waiter. Now I’m thinking, in hindsight, with these three scraps of paper, delivered by a strange clown in NYC, they don’t write fortune cookies like they used to.

Front/Back

Rant on,

-tgs-