“In what way do you mean, ’most significant’?”
That’s how I chose to answer when once at a semi-party, a semi-conscious semi-friend asked, assumingly in an attempt to stimulate stimulating conversation,
“What was the most significant event in your life?”
Besides the obvious answer, being born, which I thought might be a tad flippant, I could conjure countless events which had great significance in my life, or at least in one part of my life up to any given point.
Therefore, the best path was to ask a question as an answer.
“In what way do you mean, ‘most significant’?”
“What?” Ironically, he answered the question answer with yet another question answer, before he went on while burping slightly at my face:
“You know; the event that changed your life the most!” Again, that word most.
Being a good sport and enjoying the game, I started flipping through the Reference Catalogue in my brain. The one with the big, bold embossed title on the cover,
LIFE CHANGING EVENTS
It was like thumbing through, say, Funk and Wagnalls Illustrated on my iPhone…. There were so many entries whizzing past and each one had true significance relative to the experience. None more or less than the others and certainly none shouting “MOST” as they slid by. Consequently, I decided to arbitrarily stop thumbing through and relate whichever story came up.
After all, how the hell would he know if it was the most life-changing-singular-significant-event in my life? Anyway, I figured he assumed I was going to save my best for a better party anyway. In that spirit, I announced,
“This is probably a penultimate event” (just being in my integrity), “but here goes...”
“Great!!” he interrupted. “Hey! Hey! Come on, listen up! Saxz’s Greatest Life Changing Event!” Everybody hoorayed, applauded and moved a bit closer.
I got the feeling that he didn’t know what penultimate meant.
I also got the feeling I might easily disappoint these people….
I probably could have laid them in the aisles with the story of being forced to watch my Grandmother mutilate chickens in a Humouresque killing spree. I was six.
But I didn’t pick that.
Perhaps I could have amazed them with the incredible story of coming back to life after nearly 10 minutes of death at the age of five.
Didn’t pick that one either.
The flip through, thumb through had stopped at The Lady on the Street Corner. Not as dramatic as some others, but more thoughtful perhaps, and certainly appropriate: she changed my life significantly, continues to do so to this very day, and the semi-party with the semi-conscious semi-friend was in NYC. After everyone settled, so to speak, I began again.
“Okay. Here goes:
I was somewhere close to twenty years old and had been living in New York City for several months. I remember the day perfectly. It was a crisp, windy, late Autumn morning. I was trotting down the stairwell from my just-the-day-before-moved-into-fifth-floor-walk-up…” (a couple of people in the audience chuckled, probably at the image of anybody trotting) “…tucking a scarf under my flannel lined denim jacket, thinking,
‘whew, issabit chilly up here for a kid from down there. Still a bit thin-blooded I guess.’
I stopped for a minute on the stairs while I bundled up and looked around. Actually, it was difficult to believe: here I was, a speck of dust from Oklahoma living in New York City in Hell’s Kitchen in the back of a great railroad flat. It was truly a bit surreal.”
I paused long enough to determine that at least some of the listeners understood what surreal felt like, even if they had never been to a Salvador Dali exhibit.
“Well, I trundled on down the stairs…”
“Thought you was trot -ting.”
“That’s right... thanks for listening. I trot-ted on down the stairs bursting out of the front door into the blustery morning. Stopped again on the stoop outside, sucked in an ungodly amount of carbon monoxide, and did a Gene-Kelly-Singing-in-the-Rain sorta thing down the steps and across the street toward the subway entrance.”
“It was raining?” asked the trot-ting expert.
“No.”
“Is that significant?”
“No, but good question. What happened next was significant: as I was veering closer to the side of the building on the corner, someone slapped me hard on the back, WHACK! screaming ‘Get outta here! Get outta here! Get outta here!’
I turned around saying, ‘Wha…?’ and this tiny, grizzled old woman sporting five or six ragged sweaters and fewer teeth proceeded to punch me hard in the stomach while spewing a stream of invective filled nonsense. ‘Whathehell d’ya think yer doin’ here? Ya jist can’t fuckin’ walk into a Lady’s godamn apartment uninvitated trackin’ yer feelthee, naystee godamn big boots allover my clean fuckin’ livin’ room rugs godamn it…..!’
She stared me straight in the eyes with cobra venom as I slowly backed away in shock, and then ran at me full speed and hit me in the stomach again! Get outta here Get outta here Get outta here!!!’”
Everyone in the semi-party room looked almost as shocked as I had been at the time, so I continued before the trot-ting guy could think of another good question.
“As I walked away looking back over my shoulder, I saw her scuffle over to the side wall, pick up an old broom without any bristles and begin to sweep the sidewalk, muttering to herself and punctuating the conversation with ‘godamn trolls!’ and the like, thrown out like a right hook.
My stomach was hurting a bit but I managed to catch my breath, and checked around to see if anyone else saw this crazy thing happen.
Across the Avenue there was a policeman, leaning on a wall, eating a bagel and drinking a deli coffee, believe it or not, pretending to watch some ancient sidewalk salesman setting up his glove and hat rack. This cop looked as if he had literally rolled his beat for 20 or 30 years. I thought, just maybe… so I jaywalked on over and pulled in next to him saying, ‘Did you see that?' Still pretending to look at the vendor, he said ‘See what?’ ‘That woman across the street just hit me in the stomach, twice, hard.’ He laconically shifted his gaze over to her and continued shifting to take me in with eyes that had long ago ceased to hold surprise.
‘Are ya hurt?’
‘No, not really.’
‘No broken ribs or nothin’?’
‘N-no…’
‘Internal bleeding?’
‘No, don’t think so.’
‘Wanna file a complaint?’ This as he lowered his chin to his chest and looked at me from under his brows with you-don’t-want-to-file-a-complaint eyes. ‘'Cause if you wanna file a complaint, I’m gonna have to get out my book, take down all your information, go haul ol’ Vicki in, then do a shitload of paper work and she’ll be back out here before you could say Arno’ Swatzenzeeger.’
’Schwarzenegger.’
‘Whatever, wise ass. Are you gonna file a complaint or no?’
Somehow, I instinctively knew what my answer should be:
‘No, no, no.. Just wondering about her, you know.’
‘Aw, ol’ Vicki’s OK. Just a few cards short of a deck, ifyaknowwhaddamean. She don’t hit everybody, but you walked right t’ru her living room, and you’re new ‘round here. She really believes she’s in an apartment upstairs in that building. Sometimes she invites people in, sometimes she complains to us that she has intruders. Sometimes it’s the same people. Go figure. Just let her be – she’ll get used to seeing you or ignore you sooner or later.’
‘T’anks’
‘Don’t mention it. I’ll probably ignore you too’
I side stepped away and watched ol’ Vicki for a few more minutes as she mumbled gaily to a stray kitten figure-eighting around her ankles, which reminded me a lot of my little Calico who was probably napping upstairs in the window. Pulling myself away, I went on with my day descending the subway steps with a last fleeting glance into ol’ Vicki’s living room.
The experience stayed with me all day, though I had little time to think about it. On my way home later that night, exhausted, walking home from the subway, I stopped briefly across the street from ol’ Vicki’s place. No one was home; her stuff was all there but she wasn’t. But then a movement off to the side caught my eye and I recognized her shape. She was huddled in a doorway against the cold, marching her feet quietly in place, intently watching her possessions. It was difficult to take my eyes off her, but after a second or two, I dropped my gaze and moved on down the block to my fifth floor walk-up.
It was on the first step up the inside stairway that it hit me. I literally turned around and stared at the front door to make certain I was really there, or something. Everything around me was changing, swirling into dust and back into solidity as if really good mushrooms had been on the slice of pizza I had earlier. Time and space morphed and as I turned back to mount the stairs, putting my hand on the banister, it dissolved then reconstructed itself from swirling air and wafting colors. Panicking slightly, I heard my own voice….”
Glancing at my semi-party audience, I realized they were caught up in something, but that they really didn’t know why they were caught up nor what they were caught up in, so I said,
“Here’s the most significant part:
I heard my own voice saying aloud, ‘I COULD BE THE LADY ON THE STREET CORNER!’ Not the ‘therefore but for the grace of God…’ kind of ‘I could be the lady on the street corner,’ rather the ‘I could be the lady on the street corner’ kind of ‘I could be the Lady on the street corner.’
Perhaps I wasn’t climbing the stairs to my apartment. Perhaps I didn’t even have an apartment. Perhaps I was actually climbing up a fire escape into a cold abandoned building carrying the bounty from a day of begging and only imagined I had a fifth floor walk-up, and a job, and a warm jacket. I was shaken to the core. Everything became a bit uncertain, but I continued to climb and the swirling dust settled into tangibility again as I methodically opened the three locks on my front door, even though I was thinking, bet ol’ Vicki has a locked front door too… I walked on in, closed and re-locked the door, and normalcy returned to a degree as I scratched my little Calico behind her ears and poured myself a glass of Rijoja. Nothing else dissolved or swirled and reinvented itself, but I still wondered; and still wonder to this day, and am not sure. Perhaps I am the Lady on the street corner.”
Surveying the room, I realized my audience wasn’t quite sure either, however, what they were not sure about was whether I was finished or not. So I stood up gathered my stuff and said,
“Think I’ll head on home now.”
Don’t think any of them got the joke or significance of it…
©saxz 2011
Posts
