Sunday, 03 August 2003 | New Yorkers

The seat next to me had blood smeared in it. I tried to imagine why, scenarios which included everything from a torn cuticle to a punch in the head to a knife wound. There wasn't much of it, just a few streaks which appeared to have been swiped with a finger in a half-motivated effort to clean it up. There was also a balled-up tissue riding along next to me, which perhaps knew something about what had happened, who the blood had come from. Across the aisle from me were three very hyper children who appeared to be siblings. The boys liked to perform—beat on the seats like drums, slide down the subway poles like firemen—because it made their sister squeal with delight. They were oblivious to everyone on the train but themselves, oblivious to the streak in the seat next to me. It was 2 a.m.

She was almost glowing in her Crayola yellow suit, her white-blond hair, gold jewelry, and layers of dusty pale powder, as if she'd borrowed the rays of a cartoon depiction of an angel. She immediately stood out, and at first I thought she was just from another part of the city, from uptown maybe. Her make-up was almost thick enough to be a mask. Before I realized that she was Barbara Walters, it occurred to me that she looked rather familiar. She was strolling down 6th Avenue with Macauley Caulkin, as if the two of them often stroll down 6th Avenue together. A pack of TV cameras trailed them like the train of a wedding dress.

His clothes were faded and dirty, and his tan face was creased with deep wrinkles, as if he'd left both in the sun a little too long. White whiskers poked out of his angular face; he was old and skinny, although probably not as old as he looked. Folded over into the shape of a half-open book, standing with his chest parallel to the ground, he held his arms out in a Superman pose and gripped a peeled, half-eaten banana. Rather than eat it, he shakily brought it up to his lips and tried to take a sip from it, as if it were a beverage.

There were only a few of us sitting in the dark, spray-painted bar, and we were all engaged in conversation, minus the youngish black guy who was sitting next to me. So I said hello and introduced myself, just in case he was interested in joining in. He seemed friendly, but a little off, though I couldn't pinpoint why. Perhaps it's because he stares straight ahead when he talks? He told me his name and that he was 27, and then he pulled out a yellowed article from his back pocket. "It's written about my high school basketball team," he said, proudly. "My name's in it." He held it out for me to see, and then he carefully refolded it and returned it to his pocket.