Dedicated to my wonderful Grandparents Sandy and Irwin Frishman, who inspire me.
I run across the platform with an overly dramatic superhero soundtrack playing in my head and slip through the closing subway doors just in the nick of time. Out of breath, I scan the car for an open seat next to someone relatively harmless. My options are limited: sit next to the obnoxious woman yelling into her phone or the snoring old man. I choose the latter and take my seat. Startling me, he opens his eyes and inquires, “Like a lemon drop, son?” I generally prefer keeping to myself, and public transportation gives me enough anxiety as it is, so I give the slightest shake of my head towards his direction and make a show of putting in my earbuds. I close my eyes and tilt my head back until it bangs against the metal wall of the subway car. Chris, it’s fine. Ten more stops, and then we will be home. Can you stop freaking out? You’re being dumb, I tell myself for at least the tenth time in the last hour. I turn up my music.
The train comes to a halt, and I feel a light tap on my shoulder. I open my eyes and see the old man staring up at me. A little red cap sits slanted on top of his white hair, and his big brown eyes look like they are sinking far behind his wire-framed glasses; they don’t look sad, though; actually, I think they are smiling, as much as eyes can smile at least. He looks too happy to be an old person.
“You hear what stop we at, sonny?” he asks.
“West 72nd Street,” I reply.
“Quit mumbling! What was that you said? 56th?”
Speaking as loudly as I can muster without feeling stupid, I repeat, “West 72nd Street.”
“Well, why didn’t you just say so. Where are you, headed? This subway is taking us downtown, right?”
I am deeply embarrassed to be having this conversation. Why won’t it stop? I reluctantly reply, “Yes. Downtown, sir. I am, um, making my way to West 4th Street.”
His eyes smile and he responds, “I have some very fond memories of that neighborhood. Back in the day—” I picked the wrong seat. Shit—“we hung out there every night shooting the breeze, fooling around, and getting into all sorts of trouble. I could tell you some good stories if you were interested, of course?”
He was looking at me expectantly. If he wanted to “shoot the breeze” or whatever, he chose the wrong guy. I don’t want to be rude though, so I’ll just sit here. You should say something; just sitting here saying nothing is just as rude as ignoring him. It's literally the same exact thing. At least turn yourself in his direction, and if he wants to talk, he will. I turn my head and acknowledge his existence, which earns me a small smile. Did he just roll his eyes at me?
“Let me start from the beginning, it was way back in 1954. It was a Saturday - I remember - my day off from working in my parent’s candy shop. On summer days, the Russian boys of the Lower East Side met up in Washington Square Park. You know West 4th Street, it was the hot place to be, and maybe it still is; I don’t get out much these days. We were on our way to a protest. It feels like I spent that entire decade protesting for one cause or another. We had a lot of beliefs, a lot of anger, and frustration. We craved the high. We had learned there was nothing sweeter than sticking up your middle finger to authority. We washed our “fuck yous” down with a bottle of stolen beer and left slightly more satisfied than we had arrived. Sonny, you know what happened on May 17, 1954? And tell me your name while you’re at it.”
“It’s Chris and I don’t remember, sir,” I say. Yes, we are actually talking. That was good. This isn’t so bad. I turn myself a little more in his direction.
“Do they teach anything to you kids these days—” That seems like a rhetorical question; I don’t need to respond. “I swear my grandson, he’s ten, rambles on for hours about people who live inside the television, but he is otherwise absolutely clueless. I get a feeling you're not like my grandson. Time will tell. Oh, I apologize! You're sitting on the edge of your seat, and your knee is bouncing up and down, up and down. I didn’t mean to leave you on a cliffhanger.” What is he going on about? He has barely begun whatever apparently long-ass story he has insisted on telling.
“It’s okay.”
“Where was I?” I think this is also rhetorical. “Well? Don’t leave an old man hanging. Where was I?” Oops.
“Sorry, you and your friends were going to a protest. May 17, 1954.”
“Oh yes! On the 16th, we were on our way to protest segregated schools. I had barely made it through high school myself. But let me tell you - you don’t need an expensive degree to know right from wrong. Anyways, the park was packed. An hour or so went by. My arm was getting sore from carrying a picket sign, I was drowsy from drinking, and honestly, I wanted to head home for a nap. As I was leaving, on my way to do just that, I saw a girl. She was soaked from head to toe in what seemed to be water. Her blue skirt clung to her body, her blouse had become slightly translucent, her blonde hair was matted, and she was smiling from ear to ear.”
The old man is closing his eyes as he speaks. There’s a trace of a smile on his lips, but not one of a blissful nature. He looks somewhat pained. The train comes to another stop. We are at West 4th Street, ironically my stop, but I don’t want to leave. This is a new feeling for me; I usually am desperate to go home, especially in the midst of conversation.
“We are at 14th street, sir, my stop,” I suddenly exclaim, surprising myself and the old man. I don’t think he had even noticed the train wasn’t moving. My anxiety about almost missing my stop overrides the strange sensation of wanting to stay with the old man, and I get up from the seat and quickly exit the subway car. As I walk up the stairs, I hear someone call my name. I stop and turn around to find the old man climbing up after me, one slow step at a time. I’ve stopped in the middle of the staircase. People are bumping into me from every direction; they are probably annoyed with me. You need to move, I don’t like this. I turn my back to the old man and, two steps at a time, I make my way to the corner of 4th street, safe from all the rushing people, to wait for him. It takes him a few minutes, but when he emerges from the underground he is still smiling.
“Come on then, Chris. I’ll show you where it all went down,” he calls to me.
“Yeah, okay, if you insist,” I say, mocking my reluctance. “You seemed kind of sad back there. When you were talking about that girl.”
“Did I?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Quit calling me sir.”
“Alright, si— alright.”
“She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen, you know. More beautiful than my wife, but keep that to yourself.”
“So you didn’t marry her then? That’s why you seemed so sad.”
“No, I didn’t marry her. But I wouldn’t have been sad about that. You want a hot dog? I could eat an ox!”
Without waiting for my reply, he heads farther into the park towards the hot dog stand. We pay for our hot dogs - well, I pay for our hot dogs - and take a seat on a bench. We are facing the arch. It’s a warm sunny day, one of the first of the year, so the park is cluttered with people picnicking, playing music, skating, and tanning. Some are even in bikinis, which I think is a little premature. I feel comfortable watching the people, the newly green-leaved trees, and the fountain from afar. For a moment I forget I’m not completely watching life alone. Right next to me is a stranger, another living being. A stranger I am talking to like I would a friend.
He points to the fountain and says, “Sandy, the girl I had been talking to you about, looked right back at me and said ‘I went swimming.’ I was no good with girls. Never serious enough; was always joking around too much. I had never really had a reason to get serious. But there she was. Smiling and soaking. And there I was staring back at her, never looking more serious. ‘Get dinner with me;” I stated. She made some excuse about how she was too wet to go anywhere presentable. I told her I didn’t care, it was hot out anyways.”
“You just asked her to go out with you? Just like that? You have game, old man.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Never mind. Sorry, I interrupted.”
“Why are you saying sorry?”
“Because I should have let you finish. I’m sorry.”
“Stop being ridiculous. This is a conversation, son. You are meant to reply, and then I’ll respond. And then you are free to talk again if you so desire. And here I was just beginning to think you weren’t a lost cause.”
“Sorry.”
“Good God!”
He plops the last bite of his hot dog into his mouth with a satisfied grin before continuing the story.
“After some convincing, she said yes. Is that still what you call a good game?” He asks.
“Sure.”
“Good. I took her to my favorite hot dog stand. You know it.”
“You took her to this hot dog stand? For a date?!”
“She absolutely loved it. She was an NYU girl with a rich papa. She was used to restaurants where they pulled out your chair and laid a silk napkin on your lap, but she still said the hot dog stand was the best meal she had ever had. We dated for three years after that. I asked her daddy if I could marry her. He said no.”
“Why did he say no?”
“Apparently, from birth, she had been betrothed. A family friend’s son. The guy was graduating from Harvard Law. He was going into politics. Her father told me he could be president one day. I think he cared more about the guy’s trust fund though. He told me there was no world in which a boy like me, an immigrant’s son, would marry his daughter, a Manhattan socialite, a girl from old oil money. I felt so embarrassed, so unworthy.”
“He was wrong though. You loved her. And she loved you right?”
“She was in love with me.”
“So, that makes you better than Mr. Trust Fund.”
“I thought so too, which was why I proposed to her anyway. And why she said yes.”
“But she’s not your wife.”
“I’ll get to that.”
“Okay, sir—Okay.”
“I heard that,” He said with a smirk. “I proposed to her in the fountain.”
“What do you mean in the fountain?”
“I got down on my knee right there in the fountain.” He begins to get up from the bench, struggling for a moment to regain his footing on the pavement. Once he’s stable, he walks towards the fountain, leaving me alone on the bench. I get up to follow him, but before I can catch up - he is walking surprisingly fast - he has two feet planted in the fountain.
“What are you doing!?” I scream. He gets down on his knees using the edge of the fountain for support. People are staring, and I’m starting to panic. Of course, he is crazy. You should know better than to talk to strangers let alone spend the afternoon with one. We can’t leave. In too deep. Go help him. I run over to the edge of the fountain and give him my hand.
“This is what I did,” he explains. “Just like this, I got on my knees in the fountain. I asked her to marry me and she said yes!”
“Do you need help,” I say, still extending my hand? “Come on, please get out.”
“You’re such a buzzkill, you know. It wouldn’t hurt you to have some fun,” he says, swatting my arm away. “Get in with me.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Come on. I’ll buy you an ice cream.”
People are still staring at us. A woman walks over to ask if we are okay; the old man happily informs her that we are doing swimmingly. He laughs at his own pun; I kind of want to throw up. When she walks away, apparently content with his response, he asks me to get into the fountain again. Just do it. Who cares, you don’t know these people. You will never see them again. It shouldn’t matter if they think you are a lunatic. Worst case, you get a little wet. But, then mom will ask me why I am wet. What will I say? What if I do know someone here? Someone from school could be here. They will tell everyone I go swimming in fountains with old men. I am so tired of convincing myself in and out and in and out of things. I think that is why I step into the fountain: to tell the voice in my head to go to hell. The old man gives me an encouraging nod, and I lift my back foot from the concrete and into the fountain. I give my hand to the old man again. This time he takes it and gets up from his knees. And then, with a purpose unknown to me, I run straight for the center. The water sprays at me from every direction. It’s in my eyes and my mouth. In seconds, my clothes are soaked through. I am crying; the tears mix with the water. They are happy tears, I realize. I am smiling. I feel free; alone in my head, but not physically alone because the old man is here with me. He’s laughing and watching me. I’m sure everyone is watching me actually, but I don’t care. For the first time, I don’t care.
We get out of the fountain. He gave me a pat on the back, saying he was proud. I was proud too. I decide he should dry off quickly, I don’t want him to get sick from his damp clothes. We walk to the closest pharmacy in comfortable silence. When we get to the counter to pay for the towels from Duane Reade’s small cheap home section, I grab some Caramel Nips; the old man had started to cough quite a bit and had insisted the caramel lozenges would help. I smile at the girl behind the cash register. I usually don’t smile. I usually have a get in and out as quickly as possible mentality, but today I smile. She smiles back.
“We went swimming,” I blurt out.
“I can tell,” she says with a laugh. Her laugh is light and airy. I want to hear her laugh again, but I don’t know what to say next. I am just standing there. Chris, say something, at least pay, so you can leave. I hand her the money for the towels and cough drops.
“Would you like a lemon drop, dear,” the old man says to her. Does he not realize how creepy that is?
“Yeah why not,” she responds.
He pulls out the lemon drop from a small cloth bag in his pocket. He places it into her palm, and tells her, “It's a family recipe. Now, could you also give my friend here,” he gestures to me, “your number? You won’t regret it.” Oh. my. god. I cannot believe he just did that. OH MY GOD. Someone save me. Kill me now, please. I need to leave.
“I am sorry about him,” I say in a fluster. “You don’t have to eat that or give me your number. I’m sorry.”
She unwraps the candy, examines it for a moment, before dropping it into her mouth. I feel a little mesmerized.
“This is delicious! I would be happy to give him my number. If he wants it, of course,” she tells us.
I nod before I can convince myself otherwise.
She gives me her number, writing it out on the lemon drop wrapper and pressing it into my palm along with my receipt. We leave the store; I summon the confidence to look back once more; she’s still smiling. Outside the store, the old man and I go our separate ways. He gives me a firm handshake, and says, “It’s been a true pleasure, my boy.” And with a final pat on my back, he’s gone. I watch him slowly walk away and yell, “Thank you, sir!” before he can turn the corner.
I wander a few blocks and look down at the crumpled lemon drop wrapper, still in my hand. I quickly dial the number.
“Hey, it’s Chris. The guy who went swimming.”