Friday, 16 May 2003 | Street stories

"Excuse me, miss. I'm blind; can you help me out?" I thought he meant: help him cross the street, not help him: please give him money. It occurred to me as strange that he called me "miss," since apparently he can't see. I decided to ignore my suspicion, just in case the sound of my clunky cowboy boots on the sidewalk somehow gave away my gender, or just in case he's only partially blind, or just because I was already standing there and I didn't want to be rude, or just because I didn't care if he was lying. He was wearing shorts, I think—I didn't want to stare, so I only caught glimpses—because I saw what appeared to be a very shiny artificial peach-colored leg. His left arm was short and crooked, not unlike the forearms of a T. Rex, and he wasn't wearing sunglasses. He was gripping an umbrella-shaped cane with his good hand. He let go of it briefly to accept some change.

This isn't my story, but Sarah's: On the subway this morning she half-noticed a black guy (who'd been reciting poetry) talking to a white guy, seeming to get along with him. When the train stopped, and the white guy stepped off and took the opportunity to tell the black guy, "You're crazy." The black guy retorted, "You're crazy, whitey!" and then paused before onimously adding, "You're gonna get killed!" Sarah tried to stifle her laughter so that he wouldn't prophetically announce that she, too, would get killed, because she said she wasn't sure how she would handle that omen.

I carried a big, awkward, heavy box home from work yesterday. People cleared out of the way for me when I walked down the sidewalk. People asked if they could help me. People walked around me while I rested the box on trash cans and fire hydrants. A woman helped me lift it over the turnstiles. I considered and reconsidered and reconsidered getting a cab, but then I didn't want to spend the money and I wasn't too far from the subway, and, hell, maybe it'll be good for my arms, I thought. As I was nearing my apartment, I could take only about five steps before having to prop the box on something and pant. When I finally set the box down in my apartment, my arms were shaking, as if they were wondering why I'd stopped, as if they'd forgotten how to fall limp at my sides and rest. For the next hour, my muscles continued to overexert themselves, and I was incapable of doing anything with them that was remotely graceful or gentle. Such as when I made eggs for dinner, and poked through them with an abrupt jab of my thumb, showering the goo in the bowl with egg shell confetti.

Friday afternoon cake for someone's birthday, and the conversation among my coworkers turned to being mugged, being jumped, hearing gun shots, having a gun pointed at you. (Almost) everyone had a story, and for some reason, we were all laughing. Which is what you do, I guess, when you reflect on irrational panicked decisions. I don't have a mugging story.