A Bad Rap

On New Year's Day of 2000, Elysia was still flying as part of her duties as a flight attendant. She was breeping about the country on a four-day trip and on New Year's Eve, during one of her flights, she learned that her schedule had been changed, and that she had a full day and overnight layover in New York. Her Crew was going to be staying at the Milford Plaza hotel on 8th Avenue, in Manhattan (which we lovingly called 'The Mildew Plaza'), and we arranged for me to meet her there and stay with her for the duration. We call this sort of thing 'stealing time'. We often 'stole time'; somehow managing to find time together whether measured in days, hours, or sometimes minutes (I have been known to drive the hour and a half to LaGuardia Airport, park, and pick up a couple cups of tea and two muffins so that we could sit down and enjoy them together during a 15 minute layover, and then drive back home) since we were living in different states at the time, and wanted every minute that we could to spend together.

I took an early train and arrived in the city early in the morning on New Year's Day, and sort of wandered around to get the lay of the land so that I would know ahead of time what was open, where we would be able to eat, etc.

As I was walking up Broadway, in Times Square, I stopped to listen to the Rasta Man who plays Steel Drums there (some of you who have visited Times Square may have very well seen him and heard him play on occasion).

On New Year's Day morning, he was set up just outside of the McDonalds restaurant. As he played, a man wearing a terrycloth bathrobe and pink fuzzy bunny slippers walked up to him, held out his hand and opened it. In his hand was a wad of crumpled bills and some coins. "Can you get my breakfast?" the man asked. It was quite clear when the man spoke that he was mentally retarded, and just as clear that he both needed help and intrinsically trusted just about anybody with whom he came into contact.

The Rasta Man stared at him incredulously for a few seconds... looked down at the money, back up at the man, glanced at me, then back to the man standing there in his bathrobe and slippers holding out his money, and appeared to reach a decision.. he sucked his teeth with minor annoyance, took the money, and asked the man, "Yah mon, I and I gwain catch-up wunna brek-Fass, wha'fa ye want?"

"I want an Egg McMuffin, the kind with ham, and some potatoes, and orange juice and a bun, can you help me? I don't know how to do the money.."

"Don' worry, mon, me gwain get de correc' ting"

The Rasta Man looked down at his open instrument case, which was almost overflowing with money that appreciative passersby had tossed into it, looked at me, giving me the once over, then said to me, "Wunna stay here watch de money, mon, me gwain get 'im 'im breakFass. Soon come!"

"No sweat, man..."

So, I stood there, out on Broadway, guarding money that belonged to a man I didn't know, and who didn't know me... while he took money from a man that he didn't know and bought him his breakfast, ensuring that he got all of the proper utensils and condiments, and the correct change back.

I stood out there, next to my man in his bathrobe, until the Rasta man came back with his breakfast. The Rasta Man handed Bathrobe guy his bag of food and his change. Bathrobe guy pocketed the change without even looking at it, and Rasta Man thanked me without a glance towards his cash. I stood and listened to him play for a while, then tossed a few bucks into his case, gave it a little thought and tossed a few more in, then waved to him, wished him a happy and prosperous New Year, and went on my way.

We none of us knew one another, but we trusted one another without question.

I think we New Yorkers get a bad rap, sometimes...