The man holds his violin under his arm.
The bow is pointing up toward a green tree, which is barely waving
in the breeze. He has a three inch beard and a skullcap. His face
is pale. We are in Union Square.
Union Square, on this hot, humid Monday afternoon, is a place of
intersection. For a short while, here the sacred
and the profane will intersect. Just like Solomon’s temple amidst
the thick-necked Israelites, God will come and make his home in the
midst of us.
The woman with him holds a cherry
Mandolin. She has a flower pattern pink and orange dress. Her hair
is the color of flax. As I am watching them, wondering if they’re here to
play something, a little black boy walks up and starts talking.
“Excuse me ladies… and gentleman,”
he says looking at me, “My name is Jayquan. I’m sorry for the
interruption. I’m in a marching band preparing for a meet in
Pennsylvania.” He has his speech well prepared, and he gives it in
a breathless monotone. “Would you like to bless our band by giving
a donation for us to buy uniforms, new instruments, and to pay for
transportation?”
I don’t know if he’s scamming us or
telling the truth. I look at Liz . She says to me, embarrased, “I
don’t have any change.” I look at the boy.
“I do,” and give him the 74 cents I
have. Should I have given him more? I wish I had. I wish I had
talked with him about his band and encouraged him. Even if he was
scamming us, it would have been nice to talk with him. But who
thinks of such things at the time. If you are one of those who do,
I’d like to hang out with you in Union Square. Maybe I’d learn
something. But back to the park.
In the bench on our left is “Shorty,”
a white haired, white shirted, white jeaned guy. Earlier, a black
guy came over to him and shouted/slurred his nickname, “Shorty!
SHORTY!” he said. I’m guessing Shorty got the name because he’s so
short. Now, Shorty is slouching in the park bench to our left. He
has his eyes closed.
Shorty’s friend, the black guy, comes
back and says to a black woman, “Hey baby girl. What’s good.”
She mumbles quietly, “I’m fine.”
This park is crowded, full of office workers on their lunch break,
tourists taking advantage of the shade to protect them from the heat
and humidity, and the various poor of the city: the addicts, the
jobless, the black single mothers, and a small contingent of white
trash.
