Abigail Thomas
Word Count 300
Years ago there was an old man who hung out on the streets of Upper Manhattan. He may still be there, I hope so. He had a threadbare but distinguished look, and usually had a bottle in a brown paper bag. Every time I passed, he murmured, pretty lady. It seemed to be his calling, his vocation, to bestow compliments under his breath on 110th and Broadway. Upon receiving several expressions of his appreciation I began to feel a responsibility to look good whenever I hit the street. Even just running out for a tube of toothpaste, I checked the mirror. After all, he was providing a service, a couple of words to brighten what might otherwise have been a shabby day, and I didn’t want to let him down.
Once, striding down Broadway to Zabar’s, a car full of young men slowed down long enough to yell out the window that I was walking to the exact beat of the music on their car radio. What’s not to love about that?
Before that, when I was still in my twenties, I was waiting for a bus somewhere in the East Village, on a freezing December night. It must have been two in the morning. A car stopped at the light. The guy riding shotgun rolled his window down and began to hit on me when I heard the driver say, ”Don’t hassle her, man, it’s too cold.” I looked inside the car at four men holding what looked like martini glasses and asked if I could bum a ride to Fifth Avenue and 8th Street. They obliged. I used to wonder what growing old would be like. What would define me? Would I miss the attention? Now I am old. I define myself. And the city is still there.
Abigail has four children, twelve grandchildren, one great grandchild, two dogs, and a high school education. Her books include Safekeeping; A Three Dog Life; and What Comes Next and How to Like It. She lives in Woodstock, NY.