A West Village Dream

The West Village is the quintessential depiction of a dreamy New York cityscape, the way it’s often romanced in the movies. It felt good to be out in the brisk wintry air, as long as the sun was shining. I don’t live anywhere near here, but gazing at the English ivy vines that consumed the brownstones and walking across the uneven cobbled streets was a pleasure of mine. Something about this place feels so magical and full of potential, even though living here is decidedly out of reach.

I turned down a quiet, empty street with only a few birds joyfully darting from one tree to the next; an experience that still felt odd in this normally bustling city. I said hello to the birds out loud, tossing them the end of my croissant. A figure emerged in the distance and although I was too far to be heard, their presence quickly shut me up. I crumpled up the oily paper slip and tossed it in the trash. When I looked up expecting to see the figure much clearer, they were gone. Not gone, but on the ground, which I noticed only two steps later.

I saw a person who looked awkward and possibly hurt. As I got closer I could see the soft white hair of an elderly person, face down on the hard sidewalk. They appeared to be unable to maneuver themselves up, like a potato bug when flipped on its back. It felt weird to run, so I only increased my pace slightly, only to become panic-stricken and speed up further as the squirming continued.

I arrived and rolled them to their side to see their face mask had been pushed up over their eyes. I tugged on the mask to bring it back into place. I was met with a frightened gaze of a bewildered woman, and it was then that I realized the sensitivity of being in close proximity to her during a time like this.

She began speaking immediately, causing me to almost recoil, except for the fact that I was supporting her in a semi-upright position that I don’t think she could have maintained otherwise. I could conclude she was British by her accent, albeit faint. When I stopped analyzing the situation I realized she was commenting on the weather; the fact that she didn’t care too much for the cold but that she certainly didn’t let it dictate how her day would go.

“You’re bleeding,” I interrupted.

Her blue surgical mask was soaked in blood, probably from hitting her chin on the concrete; an assumption informed by a fall I took as a teenager which required four kitchen-table stitches from my mother’s nurse friend. Her hand was cut too, and there was a splattering of blood on her light grey puffer jacket.

Apparently noticing my accent herself, she ignored my statement and dove into further conversation.

“And where are you from?” she inquired.

I was beginning to tell her that I’ve lived in New York for 10 years now but that I had grown up in Paris, when her eyes lit up.

“Vive la France!” she exclaimed. And then went on to recall very fondly her time living in France for 25 years before falling in love with the West Village during a spur of the moment trip to New York in the 90s. As it happened, she never left. She was beginning to go in depth about that time, before I snapped out of a mesmerized state and realized we were both still hovering above the sidewalk and that I should probably get her on her feet to assess the damage.

I put her arm over my shoulder and heaved her up. She was small and dainty. Her bleeding was becoming more apparent.

“Here, take a tissue” I said and handed her one from a pack in my pocket.

“Oh, am I bleeding?”, she said casually as if nothing could have taken her away from her nostalgia.

I motioned for her to bring the tissue to her chin.

“Do you live in the area?” she continued, unfazed.

I didn’t want to divulge that I was a 40 minute train ride from this neighborhood on a good day, and quickly changed the subject.

“Are you okay?” I questioned, trying to gauge if she even understood what had happened. I stepped back for the first time, thinking she might feel apprehensive about my proximity.

“I’m actually quite tough,” she started on. “I might look old but I’ve been through a lot. I was just returning from making my appointment for a vaccine.”

I noticed the bloodied round sticker on the breast of her jacket from the Vaccinate NYC Campaign. Presumably she had no one to walk her to the office. She started to seem pretty tough after all. That is, until she took a few steps.

“Well, I can walk,” she said contently.

“Is there someone I can call for you”? She shrugged it off as if it was a silly idea, not worth considering.

“Do you live close? I can walk you home,” I offered.

I got a faint sense that she felt threatened.

“No, no I live just around the corner. I’m fine really. Not to worry. Thank you,” she expressed hastily.

Could she feel in danger of me knowing where she lived? Older people are sometimes private like that. Did she feel there was a threat of me entering her home? I was near offended at how adamant she was about not accepting and I asked again.

“Are you sure I can’t walk you up to your door?” It honestly seemed irresponsible to let her go off on her own.

But with one hand wavering out to the side for balance and the other glued to the tissue applying pressure to her chin, the bloodied woman thanked me again and began to hobble away.

After a few steps she paused and turned her body all the way around to wave as if to say I’m fine, goodbye.

There was still no one else around. The tree lined street was full of three- and four-story brownstones. I searched the windows for evidence of the bystander effect, a term coined after the murder of Kitty Genovese, a woman stabbed to death outside her apartment that police believed 38 people had witnessed, despite no one intervening. I looked down at the pool of blood this poor woman had left behind. That’s when I noticed the notebook.

It was a few steps from where I was standing, with one of its hard covers bent from impact. It must have fallen out of her tote as she tumbled to the ground. I grabbed it, realizing only then that I didn’t even ask for her name. When I glanced up toward her direction she was gone.

I scrambled to the corner and looked both ways. I wasn’t sure how long I had been pondering onlookers but it wasn’t more than a minute. Maybe she really did live close and had slipped inside her building without my noticing. Was she cautiously watching me from her living room right now? I stood around with the notebook visibly in my hand for that reason. After a while, I opened the front cover, hopeful for a clue. Scribbled on the flyleaf after the printed notice "In case of loss:" were the words, in cursive pencil penmanship, "enjoy it!"

Back home, I slipped out of my winter layers and into a sweatsuit, microwaved a hot chocolate and sat down at my mango wood coffee table with the woman’s black notebook staring squarely at me. I wondered if she was okay. Dark thoughts swirled as I thought back to interning at the Medical Examiner's Office where the majority of the elderly person cases we responded to ended up being a fall that simply had gone unnoticed until it was much too late.

The ivory-colored pages were full. One page contained a well curated bullet list of particularly fragrant flowers:

Peonies

Gardenias

Hyacinth

Lavender

Honeysuckle

Ranunculus

Wisteria

There were sketches of brownstones and many beautiful facades representative of different parts of New York. Another page had a dated list of art exhibitions that appeared to have all been attended as indicated by the corresponding tick mark. I reached the pages that sandwiched the ribbon bookmark to find remnants of a page ripped out and a delightful haiku poem on the adjacent page:

Grasshopper, --

Do not trample to pieces

The pearls of bright dew.

-Issa

The pages were a reflection of the beauty she meticulously recorded. When I reached the end of the book, I slowly expanded the inner back pocket. I had exercised extreme control up to this point to avoid diving straight into this trove of potential treasures. I spread out the contents across the table. There was an “I Voted” sticker; a movie ticket; a small, flattened maple leaf. And...a pick-up slip to West Side Frames.

I almost missed the shop entirely, nondescriptly nestled between two apartments. I pushed on the door, but it didn’t budge. I knocked and waited. The door opened to reveal a 70-something man who looked like he wasn’t expecting me, or anyone, but wore a weathered denim shirt embroidered with the store's name. He looked to my hand, where I held the pick-up slip, and then stepped aside to let me in.

The shop was dark and smelled like dust. There were visible spiderwebs connecting a small fish-shaped lamp and a wooden slotted shelf containing many pale yellow pick-up slips like my own. Framed works covered most surfaces, and mostly appeared antique. The man motioned for the slip.

After a few seconds he gave a slight smile.

“I’ve been holding this here for her for a long time,” he said.

“Who is she? Because actually-,” he cut me off before I could explain, disappearing behind a blanket tacked to the door frame.

He returned with a frame-shaped package, wrapped in brown kraft paper as if ready for transport.

“She said it would be picked up by someone special. I hope that’s true,” he looked intently into my eyes.

“No, I can’t take this,” I said. “I am just trying to find the woman who lost this,” motioning to the notebook.

“This belongs to you now,” he responded.

After some back-and-forth I realized he was not going to let me go without taking the wrapped frame. So I asked to leave a note for the woman and anxiously scribbled onto a sheet of paper:

You dropped this before we met. Also, I have your frame and can return it to you at your convenience.

I left my name, address and phone number before slipping her notebook into the envelope the man provided. He placed the small package into a dusty slot and assured me he’d take care of it.

I considered unwrapping the frame that now leaned against my wall, many times. It was exactly three days later that I received a strange piece of mail; inside, a single key and a torn piece of ivory-colored paper that I immediately recognized as the size and shape of the notebook. On the page was nothing more than a sentence in cursive pencil:

Enjoy it!

I had found my reason to unwrap the frame. I carefully unstuck the scotch tape and slowly slid it out, revealing a drawing of a brownstone. I tilted the frame to check for a name and noticed an anomaly in the otherwise smooth and well-finished backing. I slowly peeled the bottom corner up to reveal the pocket and reached inside. It was a folded piece of paper that felt fragile and old. I carefully unfolded it to reveal a strange looking document I almost didn’t recognize. It was a traveller's cheque...and it was made in the amount of $20,000. Stunned and confused, I couldn’t help but think to myself, New York is the most magical city in the world.