this week in new york, the world's heads of states gathered at the united nations. the rolling stones rocked madison square garden. emaciated girls walked the runways in bryant park. and i felt so out of the loop in the bronx.
these past days, i've been shunning my friends. i'm running out of excuses now. last night, the strange man drove me to work. i told him to drop me a block away from the hospital. he simpered but didn't say a word.
walking towards the employees' entrance, i heard my phone rang. it was him. "what?" i said. "you're a punk," he said. "hell no. it's just that." "what?" he cut me off. "it's just icky. what would i tell them?" i said. "you don't have to tell them nothing," he said.
there's the rub. i want to tell them everything. and yet i won't. i can't.
growing up, i was a strange kid. never been able to put across fluidly, fluently to anybody what i truly felt. but ever since hearing my first parable during sunday school, i thought that maybe by telling stories, as jesus did, people would get me. but this thing between the strange man and i, it carries such a great weight that i wonder if people would gladly accept it even if i'd gift wrap it in the flimsy tinsel of a story.
so i walked on towards my place of work, its hallways ablaze with lights. i saw familiar faces milling, hardly talking, by the elevator door. and i knew that what this city requires of me is simply to nod, smile and take my silent place among them.
