faces

I walk 14th, from 6th over to 8th and up to 15th. Lots of the same faces. I don't see them all every day, but every day I see at least one.

When I worked in Union Square the same thing happened: I'd see the same faces on my morning commute. Not sure why it didn't happen in the afternoon. I guess people's schedules are more "routine" earlier in the day. There was the skinny punk guy walking west on 15th Street, pale-faced and always dressed in skin-tight, narrow-to-the-ankle black jeans. And the woman by Au Bon Pain walking her Dalmatian-Chihuahua. That wasn't really the mix, but that's what it looked like: a white Chihuahua body with black spots, like a Dalmatian. I stopped to pet him once and the woman was friendly and eager to talk about her dog, but when I saw her 2 days later she looked right through me. Hey, I wasn’t looking for a new BFF, but what's wrong with being able to smile at someone a few times a week?

Anyway, now I'm on the west side and it's the same story, just different players. On the south side of the street there's mom and son and dog, coming out the door next to Spoon, maybe on the way to school. When summer comes I'll see if they’re still around or if they decide to sleep in. If I cross to the north there's Speedwalker Guy, in his black and silver Lycra pants, swinging his arms with feverish intent, lost behind his sunglasses and in the sounds of his iPod. Across 7th, about halfway down, past the framing store, I walk closer to the curb to avoid the fumes of Smokey Smokerson, who's leaning on the fence next to the Irish pub, puffing away. Then there's the girl with one leg. Seriously. One leg. A messenger bag is slung across her chest as she glides quickly up 14th on crutches. She never looks annoyed or put out, just makes her way to wherever she's going, with no sign of difficulty. Is she as OK with it as she looks, just playing the hand she was dealt, or is she a fountain of anger inside, mad at the world for the hassle she has no choice but to deal with every day? Either way, I should probably walk in her shoe for a day when I feel like taking the L out of sheer laziness. Then there's the crew of homeless on the corner of 8th Avenue, outside Associated Supermarkets. They laugh and joke (and approach random commuters for spare change, of course), like they're just a bunch of friends hanging out for the morning. A few have cardboard signs scrawled with a shorter-than-Reader's Digest version of how they ended up here. They're somewhat sheltered for now, under the scaffold, but what happens when the construction is finished? Maybe they'll find another corner.

Then there are people I see twice in one day. The woman in a leopard miniskirt and no stockings in the middle of January. It HAD to be 20 degrees. Did she not know the temperature when she left the apartment this morning? What would posses someone to dress that way in that weather? I like my fashion fine, but not at the cost of frostbite. I saw her on my way back to the PATH that night and laughed to myself. Did she notice me too, think it was funny to see the same person in the middle of, like, 8 million 9 hours later? I get a kick out of that.

I wonder if anyone looks for me in the morning. I could be Skechers Girl. Mock if you must, but I manage my way up the paper-littered PATH stairs and around cracked sidewalks much better and faster than High Heels at all Costs Fashion Chick. And my investments by the pair remain unscathed in my Franco Sarto tote bag, with my lunch and my Metro Card and the auto-close umbrella that I carry every day. Oh, and the small bottle of water I keep just in case I ever again feel like I'm going to pass out on the train. That's the kind of thing you only let happen once!

So, faces. And timing. That's a big factor. Which faces I see depends on whether I get my usual train or if I’m running late -- or, rarely, early. Who would I see if I had to be in the office at 8:30? Or not until 10:00? Another whole cast of New York characters with all-new stories that I could make up in my head.