I've been in this office for 13 years - had to move out to make way for child
#2, Olivia.  It's sunny and open, right next to Zabar's.  Word is the Z's
control all the frontages to prevent a competitor from moving in, which has
prevented development, so most of the "taxpayers" (2-3 story buildings)
remain.

I first noticed the man about 8 years ago.  He's not quite shabby enough to
be homeless, but, anyway, you don't notice his soiled clothing first.  What's
striking about him is his frame, collapsed and twisted like a school bus left
over after a Wichita tornado.  He doesn't quite step so much as he slides,
and he's always dressed for Mount Katahdin - heavy LL Bean backpack,
wind-proof shell (with a second shell strapped onto the bottom, like a camp
roll), hiking boots.

He moves with the effort of a climber on the last piece  of Everest, each leg
like a stone, head down with tunnel vision.  Although unkempt, this man has
always struck me as somehow very noble - not through any suffering (none is
evident), but simply through his single minded dedication to moving through
the city streets.  I say streets, because he rarely is on the sidewalk,
moving through traffic with absolute aplomb.

I see him about once every couple of months, and so I have spotted him
perhaps thirty times over the last several years.  But he moves with
millipede-like slowness, and in all this time I have only seen him on one
block, Broadway between 81st and 80th, and have never had any clue about his
destination or mission.  Today I saw him outside of his "natural" range - one
block south, between 80th and 79th.  He crossed Broadway (actually, he was
already in the middle of Broadway) and hesitated on the other side, fiddling
with something he withdrew with painstaking effort from his backpack.

At first I thought he had some sort of small book - a tiny bible? - and was
repeatedly spitting on it, and then licking it, some sort of bizarre obs-comp
disorder.  People were streaming all around him, like a muddy river
separating around the concrete abutment of a washed out bridge.   Then I saw
his "bible" was a small ticket folder, and he was not spitting, but
extracting something with his teeth - a Metrocard.  He put the folder away,
took the Metrocard from his teeth with one gnarled hand, and turned to
descend to the subway, one step at a time.

I wondered why he had taken his card out at the top of the steps - it was
going to take him at least five minutes to get down to the turnstiles.

Love to all,  Cristopher