Was I confronted by another or was I confronting myself?
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I heard a noise behind me and a sudden burst of angry words, but they didn’t concern me. The naked city has a million stories, and tonight mine was heading toward a happy ending.
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I had just finished playing a gig in New York City—our usual roadshow: screen the film my friends had made, play and sing the theme song I’d written, have the poet who was the subject of the film read a few poems, do a little Q & A, everybody bows. Although it had been a small audience at the Italian-American Museum on Mulberry Street, the night felt electric–it was New York, after all. Despite a steady drizzle, we’d enjoyed a delicious Italian meal at Taormina next door (“John Gotti’s favorite restaurant!”). The museum audience received us very warmly. We’d even seen a church procession go down the street complete with an elevated statue of St. Anthony a la Godfather II.
In a word, I felt triumphant.
As I stepped out of Grand Central Station onto 42nd Street, I found that the light rain that had begun falling as we’d eaten our veal and manicotti had finally stopped. I closed my umbrella and said a silent prayer of thanks for a great evening getting even better.
“Twenty-five dollars,” he said again. “All shot to shit now.”
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I walked down 42nd Street toward Penn Station, my guitar in its gig bag on my back. My feet felt light, my belly full. I moved through the night like some modern day troubadour: Woody Guthrie—no, Mario Lanza, sanctified (Arrivederci, Roma!). At my side, I began to swing my compact Totes umbrella like a beat cop swinging a nightstick in an old movie. I stepped up to the curb on Fifth Avenue, happily waiting for the light to change. I heard a noise behind me and a sudden burst of angry words, but they didn’t concern me. The naked city has a million stories, and tonight mine was heading toward a happy ending.
He stepped up from behind me before I knew what was happening, stepped close until we were nose to nose. “I said, did you do that on purpose?” He was African-American, a decade or so my junior. Close-cropped hair. Designer framed glasses inches from my own. Suddenly, happily ever after seemed terribly far away.
“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, hoping the truth might be the best means of escape.
“Did you do it on purpose?” he asked again. “Knock that bottle out of my hand with your umbrella?”
I looked back to where he pointed, saw a black plastic bag on the sidewalk, Grey Goose label just visible among shards of a broken pint bottle, clear liquid spreading out on the already rain-wet sidewalk.
“Sorry,” I said, “I didn’t feel—“
“Man!” he said, his face twisting angrily. “That’s a twenty-five dollar bottle of vodka. You hit me swinging your umbrella, and now look at it.”
I looked at the broken bottle and then back at the angry man still inches away from me. “I didn’t mean—I mean—it was an accident if I did—“
“Twenty-five dollars,” he said again. “All shot to shit now.”
My mind raced. Fight or flight: I didn’t like either option. In a flash, the thin part of my brain where I keep my survival instinct offered up a solution like a tiny beacon of light at the end of a long and poisonous tunnel.
“Look, I’ll buy you another.”
He looked at me, considering the offer. “All right,” he nodded.
“Where’s the nearest liquor store?”
“One up the next block and over two.”
He picked up the broken bottle in its bag and dropped it into a trash can, and we started off together down Fifth Avenue.
He stopped dead halfway down the block. “Helluva long way for you to go just to buy me a bottle.”
He’s hustling you the little familiar voice of distrust whispered inside my head. Probably a bottle of water he dropped on purpose. Whatever you do, don’t give him any money.
We stood there looking at each other as the seconds ticked away. He in his designer frames and Brooks Brothers suit, Bruno Magli loafers gleaming on his feet. Me in my shabby mail order vest and Haggar slacks with the comfort waistband, shoes from Kohl’s as flat and dull as dry river stones. Hustle me? This guy could buy and sell me if he wanted to.
“Ok,” I said, taking out my wallet. “Here.” I handed him a twenty and a ten.
He took the bills and for the first time since our encounter began, his shoulders seemed to relax under his tailored jacket. “Thanks, man,” he said and moved off alone down the street.
It began to rain again, and with more than a little guilt, I opened my umbrella and continued on my way.
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I turned back the way we had come, no longer light-footed with triumph. Whose was that voice I had listened to? (He’s hustling you.) My mother, who had used the n-word as liberally as salt—or pepper? All the talking heads on Fox News who pretend they’re criticizing Obama for his policies, but if you listen closely you can almost hear the banjo music behind their words? Or worst of all—and probably closer to the truth—my own voice, the voice of the xenophobe I’ve never quite outgrown? Who was I, after all, and what kind of world did I live in where my first inclination was my worst inclination?
The light changed and I stepped out onto 5th Avenue, my guitar not the only weight on my back. It began to rain again, and with more than a little guilt, I opened my umbrella and continued on my way.
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Photo: Getty Images