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Country Mouse Offers Tribute to NYC
by Beth Boswell Jacks
This country mouse crept into New York City several months ago. Hubby G-Man had business there, and I had plans to visit with three friends--former Mississippian Bruce Levingston, concert pianist of renown, and two writer pals, Carol Skolnick and Bob Civin.New York City may as well be Mars to my provincial mind, so after seeing G-Man off for the day I dressed and headed for Greenwich Village--two hours early for my luncheon date with Carol. Wanted to be sure I'd be on time.
I left the hotel, flagged a taxi, asked the driver to take me to an Indian restaurant, Mirchi, at 29 7th Avenue, and settled back to congratulate myself on being brave enough to tackle this mind-boggling city on my own. New York taxi drivers are wonderful, but they have to be among the most aggressive drivers on the face of the earth. I didn't do too much settling, just gripped the seat with white knuckles and prayed a lot.
Safely arriving at the restaurant, I paid the driver and turned around to find the place locked tight--a sign said it wouldn't open for another hour. I'd planned to sit quietly in a booth with my book and a cup of coffee. Carol wasn't to arrive for over an hour. What should I do? I had no idea where I was or what the neighborhood was like or what I'd do if somebody grabbed me or how tightly I should hold my purse or which direction to go for a walk or if I took off from that very spot I'd be able to find my way back or . . . I was a mess.
I knew I couldn't just stand there on the corner. Bumpkin, I may be, most definitely lacking a fallen sisterhood aura, still I knew standing on a city street corner would not be a good idea. After a minute or two of deep and painful thought, I decided to walk straight south on 7th. I wrapped my purse straps around my neck, put my nerve endings on alert for suspicious muggers, took a deep breath, and headed down the street. After walking for blocks, I (eureka!) spotted an open deli. Alleluia, gulps and more gulps. My life was saved.
Entering the deli, I quickly found a table by the window, ordered coffee, and opened my book. I wondered if the other people there could tell I was a "foreigner." Poor folks, I thought. They're stuck in this big old crowded city with squashed lives and spirits. What an empty existence they have, never speaking to others and keeping to themselves. They don't know what they're missing not living in my wonderful rural area of the Deep South where folks are friendly and helpful.
Rather than read, I began to look out the deli's big front window. I saw bikes and parking meters. Not a building less than ten stories. Pigeons and sidewalk vents. Taxis, vans, buses, New Jersey trucks. Skinny young girls with long hair and funky clothes. Backpacks. Perky caps. Teenage boys in baggy jeans. Old women pushing shopping carts. Delivery guys and more delivery guys. Jay-walkers. Earphones and cellphones. Canes. More vans. More delivery trucks. McDonald sacks. Dreadlocks and windbreakers. Berets. A guy in a Tulane cap.
A Tulane cap? Wait a sec. What's this southern soul doing up here in no man's land? No sane persons--well, except for my friends Bruce, Carol, and Bob--could live in a place like this. Could they?
An empty table sat between me and a lone woman about my age. Dressed in khaki pants, sneakers, and a light jacket, the woman looked as if she could have just popped in from a leisurely Saturday morning stroll here on Mississippi soil or a run to the corner grocery. She leaned her curly blond head toward me.
"Excuse me," she said. "When you ordered your coffee I detected a southern accent. Are you visiting our city?"
Then, would you believe? We started to chat. Her name was Nelda. She had lived in New York City thirty years and loved it. She worked as a researcher for an author. She spoke with a distinct New York accent . . . and she was delightful. The next half hour passed in fine fashion, and when it was time to go she walked with me part of the five or six blocks back to Mirchi so I wouldn't get lost.
Since the September 11 attacks I think often about Bruce, Carol, Bob, all the Neldas, the baggy britches teenagers, the old women pushing their little bags of groceries home in shopping carts. New York City is not some dungeon of aloof, inhospitable people, but a beautiful city of spectacular diversity--dreadlocks, berets, Tulane caps. And they're not lacking in friendliness or compassion for obviously misplaced persons like me.I'm pulling for em.
Beth Boswell Jacks is editor of USADEEPSOUTH. She writes for children's magazines and small literary journals, and she pens a humor/personal essay column for a number of Southern newspapers. She has published 3 books, GRIT, GUTS, AND BASEBALL and SNIPPETS I and II, and has had two stories published in the Simon and Schuster CHOCOLATE series. Write Beth at this address.Want to leave comments on this article? Click here.
Find more of Beth's articles by visiting this link.
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Read about Beth's SNIPPETS books -- two collections of her columns.
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