A Walk in Greenwich Village

You are eighteen, your first day walking in the city alone. At 9:01 a.m., you emerge from the dark subway staircase of Christopher Street/Stonewall into the light of Christopher and Seventh Avenue South. Awaiting you at the top of the subway staircase stands an ancient man, stooped, both arthritic, spotted, wrinkled hands on his cane. He smiles at you, his few brown teeth rattling, He says no hardship will befall you with him beside you. You surprise yourself by nodding affirmatively, and he accompanies you, right hand holding the cane and left hand holding your right. But the walk will now be far slower. As you head north, you notice every detail, the doorframes and cornices on the buildings, the Rainbow Pride flags draped over the black iron fencing of the Sheridan Square Viewing Garden, the commemorative plaque on Stonewall Inn, the clothes passersby wear, as the ancient man shuffles beside you.

Crossing Seventh Avenue South is painfully slow with the ancient man, but he assures you the traffic will wait patiently. Not one aggressive honk comes from the bus, taxis, trucks, and private cars. You finally get to the west side of Seventh Avenue, in front of Little Ruby's Café, which occupies the southern point of the triangle bordered by West Fourth, West Tenth, and Seventh Avenue South. "This place used to be the Riviera Café," says the ancient man. "It was around for forty-eight years. When they opened in 1969, I took my wife there. We were their first customers." You want to ask his age, and whether his wife is still alive, but you don't.

At Tenth Street and Seventh Avenue South, you turn west past Small Jazz Club. "I play there every now and then when they have jam sessions," says the ancient man. "I'm a pianist. Do you know Warne Marsh? Red Mitchell? Stan Levey? I jammed with those guys when they needed a pianist back in fifty-seven. I played with lots of other guys too." You look at his gnarled fingers but have no reason to doubt him.

You think this will be a long walk, an endless walk, a walk that will age you. You begin to feel with every step that the ancient man is getting younger and you are getting older, that he is sucking your youth from you. You want to get away but you know this ancient man knows something you need to know, nothing your father knows, your older brother knows, your teachers know, your friends know. But you get to West Fourth and Tenth, and the ancient man gently steers you east, back toward the Christopher Street/Stonewall Subway Station. He asks you to take him back to the top of the staircase where you met him.

That final one hundred-meter walk down the block and across the street to the station seems a lot faster those first steps. The ancient man has quickened his pace, his cane not touching the ground, until he is leading you, and you are having trouble keeping up with him. He jumps onto Seventh Avenue South against the Don't Walk sign with traffic rapidly speeding downtown toward you. He pulls you up on the curb of the station entrance as if you were a small child. In fact, you feel like one now.

"I told you no harm will come to you," says the ancient man. He lets go of your hand, puts both hands on his cane, stoops, and stares down the staircase, just like when you met him. You stand there, winded, looking at him for guidance. He signals for you to return to the subway below. You planned to be in the Village all day, but you do as the ancient man tells you. You get to the first landing and look up at him. A young woman ascends the staircase past you. She and the ancient man exchange some words that you can't quite make out, she stakes his hand, and they disappear from sight.

It is 9:25. As you turn toward the next flight of steps to the subway platform, you realize that while you are only eighteen, with a lifetime ahead of you, you still must make better choices.