They say New York City can be a scary and depressing place to live. I have been living here for a little over six months and have had little to be frightened (let alone depressed) about. I've been having a jolly good time since my landing and even while walking home alone in the wee hours of the morning/night by myself the only worry that's ever crossed my mind was, "fuck these shoes are uncomfortable." I've been stumbling into some depressing spectacles these past couple of weeks and feel the need to paint a literary picture for my friends and a few random internet strangers.
The first sighting of human suffering was on a lazy, Sunday evening. I headed out for an aimless stroll with my ipod attached and plugged into my ears like the hipster life-line that it is. As I was walking to the beat of "Other People's Lives," by Ray Davies I noticed in the not-too-far-off distance a gaggle of people surrounding something. I adjusted my squint only to discover that in the core of the gaggle was a woman who had flown off of the sidewalk in her motorized wheelchair and landed harshly on her side on Amsterdam Ave. I couldn't just walk by and ignore the scene (not if I wanted to sleep at night anyway), so I asked for some details as to what happened. No one was quite sure but one thing we all knew was that this poor woman desperately needed medical attention. She was lying helplessly on her side, she had smacked her head on the street, and gotten her leg badly tangled in her wheelchair during the course of her tumble. Her leg had many of the colors Monet used to paint his landscapes. Except this combination of colors wasn't so glamorous on a bum leg. So I whip out my cell phone and dial 911. I did my best to explain what had happened to the operator and she kindly assured me that an ambulance was on it's way. I hang up and thwart my attention back to the madness. So apparently this lady who was struck with a bitchslap from gravity was not at all pleased that people wanted to help her. She was lying completely helpless on her side screaming, "I'm fine God Damnit, leave me the fuck alone!" Talk about a stubborn, type-A New Yorker! So two men lift her upright and she swats at them as though they were pesky fruit flies. After she was hoisted into an upright position she snarls at the gaggle of good Samaritan who had nothing but her welfare in mind and speeds off in her motorized wheelchair. I'm left baffled and uncertain as to whether I should stick around and wait for the ambulance to show up. I decide to redial 911 and explain that the one in need of medical attention fled the scene. The ambulance had to respond to the call one way or another so I decided to doddle around the scene until the emergency buggy pulled up. Soon enough, they arrived and I found myself bumbling to explain the situation. I told them to keep their eyes open for a deranged looking woman speeding about the Upper West Side with a gash in her head and a grotesquely injured leg. They thanked me for at least attempting to help her and everyone went on about their evening.
My second encounter with human frailty was on a balmy Tuesday morning. I had just dropped off the kiddies at camp and was again on Amsterdam Ave. The only concerns in my mind at that particular moment were, "Bagel for breakfast, or Rasin Bran? Hmm, maybe I'll eat at a diner." My trivial concerns were soon annihilated when I looked up and notice a man waiting at a crosswalk for the light to change. All of a sudden, "WHAM!" The poor guy gets run over by a massive dry-cleaning van! It was a sight that caused a visceral sting for sure. This van was backing up way too fast (probably around 25-30mph) and it just cracked into this innocent pedestrian and then proceeded to run over his legs! It was painful to watch, I can't even imagine what it was like to experience. The sound of the mammoth metal box on wheels colliding with the body was comparable to a sonic boom. After getting over my initial shock, I hesitantly strided up closer to the scene. The victim was spazzing out on the sidewalk moaning and writhing with pain. The reckless driver was obviously riddled with guilt and was apologizing profusely. The victim only responded with incoherent wails and yelps of agony. I noticed some other bystander had taken the liberty of dialing 911 so after spectating for a bit and realizing I could do nothing to contribute to the situation, I went home and decided to go with the bagel.
The third and by far most depressing instance of humanity was about a week after the van mow-down. I was toting around the double stroller in the hopes of getting my sweet little dumplings, Ryo and Mina, to take a nap. As I was parading through the Upper West Side sweating due to the stifling heat and humidity, I notice a swarm of cop cars, random pedestrians gawking, and caution tape blocking off Amsterdam Avenue between 69th and 70th street as I approached. I couldn't quite make out what had happened but assumed there was some sort of terror threat, car accident, or any other random incident. Since seeing a fleet of NYPD cars isn't an uncommon sight in the city I didn't think much of it. Although, there was a palpable gloom in the air that heightened my curiosity. I asked one of the many pedestrians what was going on, and he gravely responded with, "Someone just jumped from that building and committed suicide." Eek! As soon as he said that I pan my vision-scope ahead a bit and my eyes were attacked with the image of a white blanket spackled in blood covering the crumpled up body. That wasn't the worst part though. The worst part was having to find an answer to Ryo's inquiry of, "What's going on?' Normally I don't sugarcoat or attempt to hide the facts of life from children. However, suicide is a complex concept that may be a bit difficult and overwhelming for a five-year-old to grasp. So all I could seem to muster up at the time being was, "Someone had a terrible accident and now the police are helping to take care of it." I tried to shake the sordid image and event from my mind for the rest of the day but found myself taunted with it.
Fortunately, it's been a good week or so since my last encounter with witnessing any form of tragedy. Hopefully this streak will last. For a second there I was beginning to suspect that Amsterdam Avenue was cursed to be a venue for human mortality. Maybe I'll be able to counteract the memories of all these morbid accidents by witnessing a miracle birth or joining in a John Lennon sing-along at Strawberry Fields. Who knows? This is New York and the possibilities are endless.
