I was walking out of the subway this morning, just off the train and up the first set of steps, and everything went just a bit blurry – kind of otherworldly – and I thought this whole situation just seems so surreal. Is this really my life?
I’m up by 5:30 am (earlier, sometimes, because I just wake up). Listen to NPR while I get ready for work. Try to do some sit-ups, push-ups, and stretching – I have sciatica. Take a shower after the water warms up. Shave, and all that stuff. Then, after ironing a shirt or some such thing, if need be, I try to sit for a bit of quite-time, devotional time, prayer time, Bible-reading time, some time where I can actually encounter God. “Try” is the word. Too many times I become distracted by some thing or another and I end up not doing any sit-ups (which can also be attributed to laziness) or having a devotional time.
Leave to catch the subway by 7:00 am. Go down into a very steamy and hot tunnel and stand and stand and wait and sometimes read. I inevitably just missed the train I wanted. It happens all the time. I’m fated. So, if I’m fortunate, I can sit down, otherwise I will stand for around 20-30 minutes riding through tunnels under Brooklyn, the East River, and Manhattan. I arrive at my destination – 42nd Street. Walk up the first set of stairs, through the tunnel, and through the turnstiles.
There, on my left, is the newsstand, the little florist shop, and lots of people milling around and going somewhere. The proprietors are not native to this country. I talked with a young cab-driver last Saturday. He was born in Bangladesh and came to this country when he was eight. He has only been driving a cab for a couple of months and hates it – hates it! His dream was to open a candy store. Good for him. He said that in this country that anyone can make money. He would work 11, 12 hours a day in his candy store – no problem. In this country, no one bothers you and you can make money, he said. The proprietors of the newsstand and the little florist shop work all day in very hot conditions, underground, everyday, and they make a living.
Up another set of stairs and suddenly, open space, Bryant Park, and another non-native man standing at the top for the subway exit passing out free “subway newspapers.” He says something, but I have no idea what he says. He is older. I don’t sense anger, bitterness, or guile. He is making a living. He is making some money. He is taking care of himself. He works and tries and is honorable in his efforts to support himself and perhaps his family. I think, at this age, this guy should be heading for retirement and enjoying his grandchildren, not standing out in the weather trying to get rid of the pile of newspapers at his feet.
Walk a few blocks and get my orange scone and medium coffee at Au Bon Pain. Sometimes, something else to eat, but always a coffee – always. Cross 37th St. at 5th to the produce cart. The man working the cart is always there – during the coldest days of winter and the hottest days of summer. He is always there (well, almost always – after one particular snow storm last winter he never made it in). I buy my banana for 35 cents. He is not from this country. He works hard, everyday and no matter the weather. He is nice. He generally smiles. He knows some of his repeat customers and the chat or joke a bit.
March to the office. I sit at a computer for hours and pretend to be a data-analyst. I play with numbers for 7 hours or so a day. Numbers. 7 or 8 hours a day. This is my life?
It seems so surreal at times. Don’t get me wrong, please, the job I have is with a great bunch of people. Dedicated and hard working. They all make a whole lot more money then the newsstand worker, the florist guy, the produce-cart man. I get paid well and it enables me to work with the people of St. Paul’s. To learn the ropes of church stuff.
Yesterday, I was solo for the first time.