Spring, Manhattan
art by Jameson Currier
pastel on paper
20170503001
First Day of Spring
art and text by Jameson Currier
March 21, 2019: I am thinking more and more about retirement, probably because it feels so close now and today was one of those days when I wake up and everything is a cloud in my brain and stiffness in my shoulders and I think, How can I make it through another day of work? But I now carry a calendar with days crossed out, a finite number until freedom arrives sometime this summer. Today, it’s the first day of spring and the weather is warmer, though there are still piles of gray crusty snow obstructing the crosswalks because of the late winter storm. I hope to move out of the city soon, something that is part of the plan, the goal, the dream to freedom, something that both excites and terrifies me because I have been a New Yorker for almost forty years now and the daily warfare to survive is ingrained in my psyche and personality.
At lunch time I took the subway from Times Square to the Village to pick up a prescription from my pharmacy and was fortunate to be sitting on the train opposite a gloriously handsome young man reading a graphic novel called Lost Cat. He didn’t seem to mind my staring at him relentlessly, trying to memorize the details of him because I thought him so handsome I wanted to draw him, even though I knew I could not do justice to that sort of beauty.
I don’t carry a cellphone—yes, that’s right, I don’t carry a cellphone because it requires me to wear glasses to read the tiny print—so I couldn’t surreptitiously take his picture for “Hot Dudes Reading Books,” or some other web site even if I could have figured out the camera function on my cellphone.
The young man had a long face with a full black beard, the hairs growing straight and thick. It looked freshly groomed, evenly shaped as it outlined his thin lips and white teeth. He had tiny black eyes and the kind of nose that slopes like a ski lift and a flawless complexion that convinced me he was still in college. He wore a black cap twisted sideways and his long, straight black hair fell out beneath it like folds of fabric. He was dressed in casual, urban gray clothes, a zippered hoodie beneath a jacket, a knitted scarf twisted low against his chest. He didn’t wear those kinds of slacks that are so fashionable now, that kind that end above the ankles; his were dark and slender. His shoes were blue canvas lace-ups, more summery than the weather that day, but he wore socks with zigzag patterns of dark colors. At his feet sat his knapsack. I don’t remember the brand name, but it was black with purple piping, and heavy enough to carry a student’s books, gym wear, and a commuter’s entertainment. It’s odd to me to see young men now so at ease with their youth and attractiveness, when I was tortured and confused every moment when I was his age, just having arrived in New York. I imagined my subway dream guy was on the way to class at NYU. I couldn’t imagine that he would be studying urban planning or social marketing or whatever the young kids major in college now, and he looked way too cool to be a tech geek—he was reading a book in print, after all, even if it was storytelling in the form of a comic book, so I decided he was on the way to an acting class, or maybe he wanted to be an artist himself, studying to be a graphic designer and illustrator, though his fingertips were not stained with color the way most are, so perhaps he was on a study track to become an architect or someone more worldly.
With luck, the train was delayed between stations, and the delay allowed me to study the object of my affection longer. His eyes never met mine—I wasn’t going to let that happen—even as another passenger—a man at the other end of the our subway car—became anxious and belligerent, yelling abusive slurs because of the delay. As our setback became longer—and the conductor made an announcement that we were being held because of traffic at the next station—the angry man became more restless—panic seemed to be rising in him, as if we were all trapped in a 1970s disaster movie and there was no way out except to dive into the water and try to swim through the narrow hole to the surface and safety. Worry shifted down the seats of the subway, person by person, as the man continued to yell.
The young man was seated next to a woman, a few years older than him and not quite as pretty. The disturbance was now rattling her; it had distracted her from her cellphone. She looked around the subway car to see who might be gallant and heroic. I looked away, not wanting to meet her gaze either. The young man tucked his book away in his knapsack, stood up and stretched his hands to the ceiling, grasping the overhead railing. He lifted his feet off the ground and tucked his body through a somersault, effortlessly twirling as if he was a circus performer. The gesture diverted the young lady’s attention to the young man and this seemed to calm her. I watched the twirl in amazement, wondering if he would accept my marriage proposal on the spot.
Of course my physical reaction was blither than my internal pleasure registered. As I mentioned before, I am a longtime New Yorker, albeit an overweight sixty one year-old one with a penchant for dressing in layers of black and gray urban garb. That afternoon I was still wearing my winter coat—a black leather one I had found in a GAP store probably before this young man was born—and had a six year-old scarf I had bought in Barcelona one winter twisted around my neck, sweating because the weather was finally trying to shift from winter to spring. The night before had been a restless one for me—waking at two a.m., trying to solve all the problems in my life and unable to fall back asleep. At work I had detected the black rings beneath my eyes in the restroom mirror as I prepared to leave midtown for the quick lunchtime trip to the Village. The belligerent man wasn’t troubling me—he was more annoyance than hazard—and I had faith that the train would start moving soon.
The young man somersaulted again, and then again. Three times total. The effort did not even cause his face to flush. While it had a calming and distracting effect throughout the car, it made me aware of how invisible I had become—and how hard it was now for me to negotiate simple things because of my health and age—I would be out of breath just climbing up the stairs to reach the street. And I would never be able to swim through that narrow hole if I needed to reach safety.
Luck arrived again, however—or, in a different manner; the train lurched into motion. The young man took his seat. The belligerent man quieted himself. And the young lady went back to looking at something on her cellphone. The young man took the same exit as I did when we reached West 4th Street, and as I stood beside him waiting for the doors to open, I detected we were the same height. Oh, how I would love you, I thought. Oh, how I would love to be you—or with you. Take your pick. I would sell my soul to be young again.
After I finished my errands in the Village, I took the subway uptown to return to work. This time, another young man boarded the train at 14th street and sat opposite me. He was impeccably dressed—stylishly so, as only a young man with money—or with a benefactor—could be. He wore a thin, short jacket and a tailored shirt, and his slacks ended, yes, that’s right, right above the ankle. His shoes were polished and ended in points. He carried an expensive looking leather case and he was wearing a large, bulky watch that I imagined was a Rolex, or something equally as expensive. He looked like a modern-day Ricky Nelson—a young dreamboat Ricky when he was at the apex of his teen fandom. This young man had the same strong jaw, tiny eyes, and his dark hair was gelled into waves that revealed his worriless forehead. He was more muscular than the young man earlier had been, or perhaps it was because his clothes were so tightly tailored to exaggerate his physique. I imagined that this man too was an actor or a model—he was beautifully groomed—though he didn’t seem to have the height required for most male models and his outwardly stance toward the world didn’t seem to indicate he wanted to be anyone other than who he was right now. (And who could possibly be more gorgeous than he already was?) Perhaps he was the contemporary version of the Madison Avenue executive—flashy, but not too, enough to be desirable by both sexes (or any sex, whatever is the politically correct term to describe that sort of appeal to the spectrum of sexuality.).
He paid no notice to me—why should he?—spending our time together travelling to 42nd Street looking at his cellphone. I spent my time looking at him and undressing him, piece by piece by piece of clothing. Spring will do this to you, you know? Especially living in the city where desire arrives with every step. Leaving the subway car, I noticed he was the same height as the young man on my earlier ride. Oh, how I would love you, I thought. Oh, how I would love to be you—or with you. Take your pick. I would sell my soul to be young again.
I followed behind him for as long as I could, until I saw him disappear up the stairs to the street. Back at work, I unwound the damp scarf from my neck and hung up my jacket and realized I was hungry—I had forgotten to pick up lunch while I was out. I sat at my desk and worked at the computer for a while, hunger gnawing at my stomach. I scratched the day off of my calendar with a red pen, even though it wasn’t finished. Then I got up to find food, hoping the search for lunch would lead to another adventure.
