Hope still thrives in New York City. It’s out there in the streets all over the city.. Most of the time, you don't even have to look for it to find it. You just have to want it.
I think there's so much hope to go around in the city because New Yorkers, who move at a faster pace then other Americans, don't usually slow down to take their share. As they move through the city's sidewalks, there's someone on every block who wants smething (money) from them or wants to give something (advertisements) to them. It's tough makinhg so many moral judgements. You can't possibly stop for everyone so most of us decide to avoid anyone who wants our attention. Sometimes that means you might miss something good.
I think there's so much hope to go around in the city because New Yorkers, who move at a faster pace then other Americans, don't usually slow down to take their share. As they move through the city's sidewalks, there's someone on every block who wants smething (money) from them or wants to give something (advertisements) to them. It's tough makinhg so many moral judgements. You can't possibly stop for everyone so most of us decide to avoid anyone who wants our attention. Sometimes that means you might miss something good.
I found what seems to be an almost limitless supply of hope on East 96th Street. It’s in the crumpled plastic bags of a beautiful New Yorker who always seems to be looking for anyone who could make use of a ounce of optimism,
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| Wilma in her East 96th Street office |
The name of this angel who holds all this hope is Wilma. Her office is a rent-free table on the north side of 96th between Park and Lexington Avenues. In addition to selling costume jewelry and giving away hope, Wilma finds the time to act as the de facto mayor of the stretch of sidewalk in front of her table. She makes sure the tiny fields of dirt the city allots to its trees are carefully tilled, planted and weeded each spring. Then she protects them from the deposits of the over-fed canines of the Upper East Side.
Wilma also keeps a supply of quarters and makes sure that motorists who park at meters near her table are protected from the army of zealous public servants once known as “meter maids” in less politically-correct times who do their best to destroy hope so they can balance the city budget.
Wilma sells costume jewelry from her little table on the sidewalk outside the basement entrance to a locksmith's store on East 96th Street. She’s there all year, absent during only the most inclement weather, selling inexpensive earrings, bracelets and broaches for prices ranging $5 - $10.
East 96th Street. is a nice New York mix – mostly a residential pre-war and newer doorman apartment buildings, about half of which have a low-key mix of small commercial properties on the street. It’s light-years away from the mostly commercial mix they have on East 86th Street to the south – where most of the stores have morphed into national chains. The street stubbornly holds onto the 20th Century,
To the West, it ends at Fifth Avenue, which skirts Central Park’s eastern border with direct connections to the slighty less-tony Upper West Side via a transverse road that speeds your car without a glimpse of the greatest urban park in the world (designed that way so park visitors wouldn’t see the horse-drawn carriages which plied that expressway when it was built 150 years ago).
To the West, it ends at Fifth Avenue, which skirts Central Park’s eastern border with direct connections to the slighty less-tony Upper West Side via a transverse road that speeds your car without a glimpse of the greatest urban park in the world (designed that way so park visitors wouldn’t see the horse-drawn carriages which plied that expressway when it was built 150 years ago).
To the East lies the East River and – more importantly – major entrances to the FDR Drive which cuts off access to the water to residents for the benefit of north and south-bound cars skirting city traffic. South of the street still marks the unofficial border of the very expensive Upper East Side (car towing fees triple south of 96th St.). The sprawling Mt. Sinai Hospital stands to the north as a buffer separating the UES from Spanish Harlem. A single block north is where speeding trains on the busy Metro-North Commuter RR take their last breath of fresh air before diving under Park Avenue heading toward the underground delta of train platforms that used to mark a much more exotic and grand Grand Central Terminal.
The IRT subway line has a local stop on the street at Lexington Ave. as will the new Second Ave. line when – and if – construction ever ends on that project. The street also boasts a Catholic Church, a NY Public Library Branch and the largest Mosque outisde the Middle East. And all these people and all these institutions work together in peace and freedom,.
Wilma introduced herself after a few months of my buying dozens of earrings from her costume jewelry collection – almost $50 worth. “I’m Wilma,” she said, adding, when she saw the strange look on my face: “Wilma, like the Flintstones.” I’ve never forgotten her name once after that. Brilliant.
Wilma knows my wife is on TV, wears earrings, but loses them all the time because she takes them off whenever she’s on the phone, which is all the time. So Wilma searches through flea markets for the clip-on variety especially for Marcia. She watches for Marcia on TV frequently and always knows when Marcia is wearing a pair of her earrings. I’ve bought over 100 pairs of earrings from Wilma over the years.
I’m likely to see Wilma each time I visit a doctor I see whose office is on 96th Street. I usually see him every two weeks and I’ve been a patient for over five years. You do the math. Each time I see Wilma I learn a little more about her. I know she loves classical music and once considered pursuing a career as a concert pianist. I know that she has a sister who is a nun in a New Jersey convent. She’s a mother superior, I think. And I know she has access to the Internet and infrequently checks out my web site.
I learned this last item when she asked me about a story I posted about a drunk hunter who blew the beak off a bald eagle and left it to die. The bird was saved by some good people who nursed it to health and donated their talents to construct several artificial beaks until one worked well enough to allow it to live a fairly normal life. I wrote how strange it was that humans could be capable of such cruelty and mass murder but also be capable of producing such sublimely beautiful things as Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.
I told Wilma that post resulted in messages from all over the globe and how much that piece of music moves me. I also told her a tale I had heard that the composer worked for years to make it perfect – and then debuted it with several sections that were obvious and deliberate errors and the theories about why he did that.
I told Wilma that post resulted in messages from all over the globe and how much that piece of music moves me. I also told her a tale I had heard that the composer worked for years to make it perfect – and then debuted it with several sections that were obvious and deliberate errors and the theories about why he did that.
She was delighted with the tale and had a surprise waiting for me when I returned to her table after my appointment an hour later. Patiently waiting with her was a young lady who Wilma introduced to me. After telling me to be quiet and listen, Wilma turned to the woman and began singing with Wilma providing perfect harmony while conducting her one-piece symphony orchestra, The two sang, in perfect harmony, an unplugged version of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” The noise of the passing traffic disappeared as they sang. The nearby subway didn’t rumble for a minute. People stopped and listened. The two women sounded like they were on the stage of Carnegie Hall, which sat empty just 39 blocks to the south. When they finished, I knew I should thank them and tell them how beautiful they sounded. But I just couldn’t find the words. Any words. I gave them a round of applause.
One year before, I was driving my car when the cell phone rang and flashed an unfamiliar telephone number. On the other end of the line was a woman with a totally unfamiliar voice. She asked for me and when I told her she had found me, she wanted if I knew Wilma. Oh no, I thought, something’s wrong with Wilma. But she said she was Wilma’s sister and Wilma was worried about me because she hadn’t seen me in a couple of weeks and was worried. She didn’t have her own phone so she asked her sister to call using a number on a business card I had given her several years before in case she ever needed to reach me. It took me five minutes to convince the sister that I really “was alright” and then get her assurance that so was Wilma.
But there was one day with Wilma that changed my life just a little. I was still working downtown and Wilma’s table was on a direct line to the subway. After I spent about 10 minutes picking out Marcia’s earrings and talking to Wilma, I told her that I wasn’t in great shape and was about to start a round of chemotherapy. “Wait,” she called as I turned to leave. “I want you to have this.”
She handed me a string of rosary beads. Attached to it was the traditional crucifix with a gory replica of the agonized body of the dead Jesus hanging from the cross. I was stunned and just a bit flabbergasted. “But Wilma, I’m Jewish.” I said.
“I know,” she said, using her fingers to close my own over the rosary. “But I want you to have it. Please.”
“Okay. Thanks,” I said as I turned to leave. “See you in two weeks.”
It was about a half a block to the subway entrance. I walked it in silence thinking about why she would give me a rosary. I was only a few yards from the steps going down to the Lexington Avenue IRT when Wilma’s reason began to reveal itself in my mind.
Tears had started filling my eyes as I went down the staircase, swiped my Metrocard and waited on the platform for the downtown local.
By the time the doors opened and I got on the train, they were flowing down my face and my eyes must have been a very sad shade of red. I think someone got up just to give me his seat but I’m not sure if he was only getting ready to get off.
I took the seat and cried all the way downtown. I never considered switching to the express at Grand Central. By that time, it felt good to release the emotions unleashed by Wilma’s gift. She didn’t give me a rosary. She gave me something even more valuable.
I’ve never told Wilma, but I carry it everywhere I go. I carry hope with me. All the time.
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AUTHOR’S DISCLOSURE: I’ve wanted to write this piece for a few months but every time I began writing something urgent came up. Although I fear this preface might appear to be a plea for the reader’s pity, a reader deserves to be aware of recent events in my life, including those that surely changed what was supposed to be a short tale of a Manhattan street vender. Instead it seemed to morph into a longer story describing how New Yorkers find hope in places that seem bereft of anything so precious. So be aware that as I wrote these words I was obsessed with leukemia, my nemesis for the past eight years. The cancer has renewed its assault on my immune system after a hiatus of almost three years. What complicates decisions about how to fight the disease is that reams of new research is being published each day that is changing almost everything we thought we knew about the disease. Ultimately, the choice of treatment is mine to make. “Animated arguments” (screaming matches) with my doctors over these “life and death” decisions have already begun. And since its my life or my death that’s involved, the stress added to each day to my life is considerable and unavoidable. The other day, medical considerations had to share my stress scale with a family crisis (one that will remain private for now) that suddenly developed. Throughout my uncommonly lucky life, I think I’ve handled stress in fairly well. But I confess that there have been moments during the past week when I’ve felt nearly overwhelmed. So I admit it’s possible that I inadvertently wrote the following tale at the wrong time. On the other hand, it remains about hope and the unexpected places where it might be found – which might be exactly what I need right now. So I’ll go ahead and present the following tale in the hope that it might teach me about how to find more hope while I still have some.
MK; Westchester, NY; January 2012
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