How not to cross a street in NYC
Columbus Circle’s subway station bustled as commuters hurried about. Waves of gray and black jackets swarmed around a woman in a bright red coat standing in the middle of the stairs. Jane aimed her phone to photograph the metal globe affixed to the promenade. She rotated the camera, attempting to catch the sunlight, when a passerby bumped her elbow and grumbled that she was blocking the exit.
Jane deleted the blurry photo as she climbed the stairs. The crowd surged, and she flowed with the river of people until an opening appeared. She stepped onto the curb and stopped next to a vendor roasting chestnuts. She raised her phone to take another picture when a low-power warning flashed. After closing the alert, she snapped a photo but the reflecting sunlight had disappeared. A beautiful, young woman holding a purple violin case strolled past.
Jane watched the woman for a moment then deleted the uninspiring photograph. She opened the phone’s map and followed a purple path to a bar near Lincoln Center. Inside the festive tavern she ordered an Irish coffee and a hot pretzel. Frayed threads got caught in her jacket’s zipper.
After a minor struggle she removed the jacket and hung it on the back of an open stool. She sat in the seat beside it and pulled her laptop from her backpack. A low-power alert flashed, so she plugged the computer into the wall, and the phone into her computer. Holly lined the window.
The battered American flag and U.S. veteran stickers on the back of her laptop reflected off of the tavern’s glass. Hurried people flew past the window. They were wrapped in coats, wearing hats, and carrying all sorts of bags—work bags, shopping bags, gym bags. She watched them for a minute, then scrolled through the photos uploading to her computer—Rockefeller Center, Radio City, 5Th Avenue. She ignored two emails: one reminding her to check into her return flight home, and the other reminding her that her bank account was low. The photos uploaded slowly. Jane leaned back in her chair and wrapped her hair into a pony.
The food and drink arrived, and she closed her tab. Steam rose from the pretzel as she tore it open. The vanilla cream melted into her black coffee. She sipped it carefully as she edited images of decorated storefronts, shop stalls lining Grand Central Station, and an ice rink in Bryant Park. She froze as the girl with the purple violin case walked past the window.
After a moment’s hesitation, she wiped her hands on a napkin and swept the salt she had spilled onto the floor. The wax paper crinkled as she set the pretzel’s basket aside. She shut her laptop and threw it into her bag. Halfway to the door, she cursed and ran back for her power cord.
The bar’s front door flew open as she hurried into a bustling New York City. The walk signal changed before she could cross the street, and she halted at the corner. The air smelled of pine. A man bundled in a Carhartt jacket sawed the stump of a Christmas tree he had just sold.
The lights changed and Jane bolted into a sea of black and gray coats, her red jacket slaloming between the dim colors. As she walked, she ignored the conversations that she usually enjoyed listening in on. Someone exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke and she inhaled the smoke instead of holding her breath. As she approached the next corner, she stood on her toes, craning her neck.
A woman bumped into her, knocking her power cord from her bag’s side pocket. Jane’s eyes narrowed as the woman walked off. Stuffing the cord into her backpack, she stepped into the street. A taxi flew by.
Jane jumped back and caught her breath. Pedestrians blocked her view as she stood on her toes, trying to see across the busy intersection. When the lights finally changed, she caught sight of the purple violin case a block away.
Rushing down the street, she arrived at the next corner just as the street sign blinked “Don’t Walk.” Car horns blared as she bolted across the street, dodging a van. She crossed in time to see the girl with the violin case walk past the Juilliard’s security desk.
Students bustled about the building’s atrium. Many of them carried instruments, but not all. Some carried bookbags no different than Jane’s, others carried dance shoes. These tall, lithe girls moved effortlessly amongst the bustle. Jane looked down at her wide calves and short legs. She trudged to an open table next to an outlet and plugged in her laptop.
Jane clicked on her images, editing and cropping, and thought of her mother who had wanted her to be a dancer. Secretly, Jane had wanted to be a dancer too. She remembered practicing pirouettes in her room and performing the Nutcracker as a little girl, bowing to the applause of the Christmas crowd. But Jane’s legs never shot-up, and she never reached the coveted 5’7 of a Rockette.
Jane’s legs remained short, and her mother pestered her to eat less, but she loved her food and the outdoors, often taking long walks in the woods and photographing its wonders. She also loved camping with her dad. There was something special about rising with him at sunrise and starting a fire on a cold morning. And he loved her photography, encouraging her to practice more. When she decided to follow his path into the military, she explained that, one day, she hoped to use the GI Bill for photography school.
Lincoln Center’s decorations sparkled in the night sky when the girl with the purple violin case walked from the elevator. Jane caught sight of her just before she disappeared outside. Jane slammed her computer shut and hurried to the door. She cursed under her breath and ran back for her power cord.
