maybe it was you.
A young, burly guy tries to hand me a flyer. “I already voted,” I say.
“Did you vote for Bill,” he asks, holding up the flyer, his candidate smiling confidently on it.
“This is America,” I say, smiling. “I don’t have to tell you who I voted for.”
“You don’t have to, but c’mon. It’s me,” he says, hand over heart.
I’ve never seen him before in my life.
Two men are walking, side by side. The smaller one is lightly holding the other’s backpack strap. Just that.
Tall guy says to me, “You’re a beautiful lady, you just made my day walkin’ by here.”
Little guy crossing the street says, “Mine too.”
Tall guy calls out to him, “Right? You work all day, you deserve to see something beautiful.”
Little guy says, “It’s like the icing.”
That guy who wanted to carry my groceries is back. He’s not looking so fine today, a grubby t-shirt and sweat beading up on the dome of his head. He’s pacing off some anger, punching the air. “He’s not even a citizen. What’s he talking about,” he grumbles to the guys by the bodega. He spits in the gutter. “Cocksucker.”
That old dude with the beatnik beard is strolling around like he owns the place. The corner boys let it ride.
Two young Italian men are strolling down the sidestreet. They’re in dirty jeans, plain thick hoodies, they have the chalky hands of laborers. But everything about them is elegant. Their faces are framed by loose dark curls. Each man leans back into his gait, every step as languid and sensual as the long vowels that trail off at the ends of their sentences. I let them pass by and then I walk behind them for a long time, listening to their lullaby voices, understanding nothing.
Three men with parkas over their pajamas, each pulled along the sidewalk by a dachshund on a leash.
The corner boys fill the warm night. They circulate in packs, moving in their slow, liquid way. But their eyes are sharp, scanning the distance. Something’s up.
Dealer’s back. I haven’t seen him for at least a season, maybe two. He’s gladhanding his corner boys as I cross the street. He looks good, better-kept than he used to. “How you feelin’ baby,” he sings out to me through a big grin, “long time no see.” He says it just right, familiar and curious, as if I were the one who’d been gone the whole time.
The coffee kid asks me what kind of jeans I like to see on a man. I’m not sure how to answer. I ask, “What are my options?”
Then a tall, narrow man with red stubble and a dockworker’s hat comes in. He pulls off the hat and orders a coffee. The kid hands him a cup and turns back to me. The man takes a sip and lets out a loud, unselfconscious sigh. His eyes are closed with satisfaction.
“Hey, I like to hear that, man,” says the kid. “Makes me feel like I made the coffee right.”
The tall man, he must be a regular, says, “Yeah, you’re good. The quality is a little more stochastic on the weekends.”
The kid looks confused. “I mean it’s more variable,” the man explains.
“Are you a math nerd?” I ask. The kid laughs, “Oh yeah, variables!”
I turn to the tall man, “No, I mean stochastic.” The tips of his ears go pink and he looks at the floor. Sheepish, caught showing off.
“Oh,” he says. “I’m a scientist.”
