The Game

Sometimes, when it’s the middle of a workday, you can feel the city’s heartbeat. If you’re looking out onto the streets or pizzerias or square office buildings, you’ll notice the rhythm of the subway tunnels echoing madly under the hum of thousands of footsteps on concrete. If you’re like Lucy, you might find yourself staring at the world from a park café, lost in the vibrations of the big apple’s beehive. When the hums grow louder with as the day goes on, people walk faster and notice less. It’s on days like this, when nobody looks back at you, that you get to stare at them.

Lucy had craved a chocolate croissant all day, she realized a few moments ago, that for some reason, she had been wanting to indulge in one for a while now. She made her way to a little coffee stand on the corner of the busy midtown park, annoyed at the tourist-oriented prices of the same pastry she could order much further uptown. Still, she was polite and patient with the barista, who was annoyed at the lack of coins in the tourist-oriented tip jar. She dropped her change in the mason jar, eager to hear the clink of the coins against glass and scurried over to one of the last remaining open tables by the grass.

By now, it was around 5 o’ clock, people were commuting home, and the city’s heartbeat grew louder. Usually, she liked being a part of it, thumping to the beat of the fast pacers, and even sometimes trying to be louder. Often, she would wake up and gauge how much noise her different block heeled shoes would made on the different pavements around the city. If she went further downtown, to the more artistic and fluid areas, she would opt for a louder pair, feeding off of the looks she would gather on her walks. But today, she was wearing mint green sneakers, and accepted some silent steps instead.

Lucy was analyzing the characters in the park, looking for common themes or outstanding accessories. She chuckled in satisfaction when her eyes landed on an old man with white hair and a sweater vest; he was feeding the pigeons. It was on antique sweater vest, one with patterns of browning maple leaves in the fall, an odd choice for a Spring day, but it fit the weather. She was happy somebody was taking care of the birds, but also wondered who was feeding the squirrels. She moved on, this time she studied a homeless woman. She couldn’t linger on her much longer, the woman reminded her of her mother. She stopped munching on the croissant to break off the last bit for her. She’d hand it to her soon, on her way home, but wasn’t sure if it was rude to offer partially eaten food. She took out the plastic knife from the paper bag and made it a point to cut halfway through the croissant. Feeling lucky, she looked for something interesting to replace the solemn thoughts about fortune. She found something different in the crowd, somebody who wasn’t feeding the birds, wasn’t suffering, and who wasn’t playing on the jungle gym. The guy she saw was about her age, had nothing on his table, and was doing the exact same thing she was.

She decided to stare more intensely, but carefully, because he was playing the same game, only with different targets. She felt like a foreign spy, trying to uncover his interests from afar. He was captured by someone nearby, but not in the park. She traced his eyes back to an office building across the street from the park. He was fixated on an older man, probably in his forties, who was cleaning up his desk for the day and getting ready to go home. He was wearing a navy suit, she had to squint to differentiate between navy and black, but it was navy. She wondered why an average man in an average building working an average job was so interesting to him, maybe he was better at this game, maybe he saw more than she did. It didn’t occur to her that he might have already noticed her, and he most certainly did. She checked the time, sighed and decided to get up and make her way to the subway, muffling through her pockets for that damn metro-card. Halfway through stuffing her water bottle into her bag, she looked up, and caught him looking at her. Now, the gate was open, she could speak to each other. She realized that what she wanted was to play the game with him. She grabbed the half croissant, now cold, and walked over to the woman sitting on the ground by the pigeons.

“Would you like some croissant?” Lucy asked, with her hand stretched out towards the older woman. She accepted, and Lucy smiled, still ridden with guilt. Feeling a little lighter on her feet, she slowly walked past the tree between them and saw that the boy was still staring at the lawyer in the building. She approached his rickety table and bluntly asked,

“What do you see in there?” His eyes jolted to hers, a little shocked that she was speaking to him, but obviously content, he answered,

“Just people living their lives,” She smiled. He was raw and curious, and she wanted to know why.

“What’s so interesting about that guy?”

“He thinks no one is watching.”

She grew more and more intrigued, and he grew more and more open. They hit it off, first discussing their surroundings, their interests, and eventually shared their names,

“I’m Sam,” he said quite confidently, she could tell he knew she was like him, a people-spy of some sort.

“I’m Lucy,” she countered, “Do you know the city well?”

“Not really, I used to live here as a kid, but I haven’t really explored it since I got back a few months ago,” she smiled again, happy with her catch.

“Do you know union square?”

“uh… no,” he chuckled. She stopped and thought for a second, weighing her options. She was finished with work, it was a Friday, and she was feeling spontaneous, so she responded,

“Well, what are you doing now? Let’s go check it out, it’s really cool,”

He was caught in a moment that would remain with him frozen in time, the moment he saw her as an equally curious and intoxicating creature. He revealed his crooked tooth with an involuntary smile, and finished off the conversation in the park with, “let’s go.”

She knew that it was odd to just attach herself to a new person for a day without knowing him very well, but somehow, she already trusted him. They made their way downtown, chatting their heads off about his childhood, their favorite movies, and random made-up concepts that made each other laugh, like personified vegetables or impressions of world leaders. The golden light that once illuminated the park tables had transformed into a darker, richer burgundy breeze; the night felt like chocolate covered cherries.

By now it was 8:30, they had walked through the main downtown neighborhood 3 times in different circles, but she started to recognize the same bagel place with the retro door, and her stomach complained. They laughed about it and searched for the nearest place they could find with a table. Luckily, there was one a few blocks down, in the heart of the Italian district. She realized this had become a sort of date, without the formalities, but still regretted wearing her mint sneakers and jeggings. They were seated by a middle-aged Italian man who grumbled at their youth. Sam ordered penne alla vodka and Lucy ordered gnocchi. The waiter returned with an offer of oysters, but she cringed at the sound of seafood, and Sam declined without a second thought. She could see that he recognized her body language, he understood how she felt just by the flinch of her eyebrow or twist of her upper lip, and she loved it. A part of her understood, though, that someone who feels your feelings can also easily change them. She was keen to see how close they could get, but she had to remain her independent self as well.

The rosemary bread on the little mosaic table was accompanied by a balsamic vinaigrette and a slab of mozzarella cheese, but there was something missing, so she asked for the wine menu. Being 23, she felt confident enough to ask for it, even in her mint green sneakers, and with her ID in her wallet back home. Sam browsed the menu, and she studied his face; his eyes widened ever so slightly as he skimmed the list, and she stated, “stop! which one did you just read?”

He looked up, “The red merlot,” he responded, “it sounds… sweet,” he finished, looking through the clear glass at her raised eyebrow.

“ok, I like sweet,” she handed the menu back to the waiter, who had some hope restored for the younger generation’s cuisine’s choices.

They blabbed on and on about the city and travel and school, she had just graduated college with a focus in psychology and art, and he was exploring marketing and education. He wanted to play his ‘game’ for a living, reading people and noting their choices before they make them. She wanted to play the game to change people’s views and wanted to use the game to capture people so she could help them see more and feel fulfilled.

The meal was exceptional, and steep, but it was worth the price. Somehow, two strangers took a plunge into each other’s lives. If one was a fly on that brick wall, they would’ve heard snippets of music comparisons and the psychology of choices and a severe disparity of skateboarding skills. It wasn’t special because of the wine or the slow shift into the night or even the presumptuous waiter, it was special because they happened to be in a park at the same time, playing the same game. The eye contact chase and body language readings opened up a new realm of possibility, a place where they were equally witty and looked at the world as their collaborative game. This game, the one where people can fall madly in love, the one where random things make for lengthy conversations and where mentalities overlap is called synergy, and these two lucky players hit the jackpot.