Upper upper and Lower lower

Abigail Thomas

Word Count 300

Years ago there was an old man who hung out on the streets of Upper Manhattan. He may still be there, I hope so. He had a threadbare but distinguished look, and usually had a bottle in a brown paper bag. Every time I passed, he murmured, pretty lady. It seemed to be his calling, his vocation, to bestow compliments under his breath on 110th and Broadway. Upon receiving several expressions of his appreciation I began to feel a responsibility to look good whenever I hit the street. Even just running out for a tube of toothpaste, I checked the mirror. After all, he was providing a service, a couple of words to brighten what might otherwise have been a shabby day, and I didn’t want to let him down.

Once, striding down Broadway to Zabar’s, a car full of young men slowed down long enough to yell out the window that I was walking to the exact beat of the music on their car radio. What’s not to love about that?

Before that, when I was still in my twenties, I was waiting for a bus somewhere in the East Village, on a freezing December night. It must have been two in the morning. A car stopped at the light. The guy riding shotgun rolled his window down and began to hit on me when I heard the driver say, ”Don’t hassle her, man, it’s too cold.” I looked inside the car at four men holding what looked like martini glasses and asked if I could bum a ride to Fifth Avenue and 8th Street. They obliged. I used to wonder what growing old would be like. What would define me? Would I miss the attention? Now I am old. I define myself. And the city is still there.

Abigail has four children, twelve grandchildren, one great grandchild, two dogs, and a high school education. Her books include Safekeeping; A Three Dog Life; and What Comes Next and How to Like It. She lives in Woodstock, NY.