New York State of Mind

This morning, a old man fell on the subway. Our train was stopped at Times Square, the doors already announced to be closing. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the man (who was probably in his mid to late 70s) get up and shuffle away from his seat, grabbing on to poles along the way. With his slow movements and seemingly deliberate steps I thought, surely, he's not trying to get off the train--he's just preparing for the next stop to disembark. But naturally, he suddenly shoved his hands between the closing metal doors, trying desperately to keep them open with his weak arms.

I darted up out of my seat just as he tipped over, sliding to the ground as if in slow motion. There was a look of frozen shock on his face. I moved toward him, realizing that I was the only one who seemed to care, not notice mind you, but care. Around him, people were starting, blank expressions on heartless faces, and I was stunned. I took the man's hand and gave it a squeeze. His skin was cold and soft; it felt innocent somehow, unaware and lonely. I felt some kind of connection to this stranger, who no one batted an eye at, no one wanted to help. It wasn't until I made sharp eye contact with the nearly 6-foot-tall man across the train car that another body stood to lend a hand.

Together we lifted the man up to his feet and guided him back to the bench. I hovered over him, my recruited helper on my left, and at the next stop we led him off the train car. I wanted to hold tight, to take the man wherever he needed to go, to make sure he was safe, but once off the wavering train, his feet seemed to balance on the solid ground and he scurried away. I turned to look at the younger man, my partner in this rescue, to see what we should do, but he was gone. I opened my mouth to call out but suddenly felt self-conscious, helpless in the rush of city bustle, so I just closed it and continued on my way.

I had to fight off tears the rest of the way to work. What kind of place is this that I live in? Where no one wants to help each other, no one wants to even notice, where no one feels safe enough or strong enough or has too much pride to actually ask for a hand? What am I doing here? This isn't me; these aren't my comrades.

I don't want to feel so alone and dazed and crushed by city life that I stop trying. But it seems that's all that happens as time goes on. I think more and more about where I'm supposed to be, where I might truly find "home." But that's all it is--just thoughts. There's no plan, no idea even of what I would do if I went somewhere else. This is all I know anymore. And it breaks my heart.