Good Old What's Her Name

At the invisible gates where my block meets the avenue sits a sentry.

African-American woman, not quite elderly, pear-shaped.  When I approach she's always in profile, at her post, wreathed in smoke.  A vigil through burning tobacco.  This neighborhood is shrill with the crashing music of alarms and sirens and shouts, but she's as serene as a Japanese garden.  I wonder what she sees that I don't. 

She favors the shade. Her perch from a wheeled walker travels to three spots with the arcing of the sun.  One of them, a grimy brick doorway, in case of rain.  She only ever occupies the north side of street.  She's seen the south side opposite, just a few feet of cratered asphalt away, and must have found it lacking.  That, or her suspension is out. Still that endless chain of cigarillos have to come from somewhere. So she's got to travel, even if only a hundred yards or so in any of four directions to a bodega.

And the cigarillos sustain. Her forearms live cemented along the crossbar, her hands wilt down in the center like crumpled fruit. But then her hand animates, set apart from the rest of her, winched up from the elbow to bring the moistened end to lips, dead on schedule.  I've never known her without that slim papyrus tube slanted through her fingers.  I've never known her to need to light one and only ever see the dirty blue tendrils twirl up into nothing. 

I've never known her every single day for three years.

I don't know her name. As a private game, after walking past I'd try to think of a few that would suit her. I wondered if any that leaped to mind might be the real thing. I could see her each day for a century and never know her name, I was somehow certain of that.

East Harlem, even by New York standards, is a transitory place.

Still a recurring face yields a small nod. An earned one. Maybe. A long maybe. Mid-stride, maybe the nod graduates to a 'how are you' that lacks a question mark at the end of it. I wish I could recall how our talks began. I don't, though. If I tried it would be an invention and accurate only in spirit. I'd be the only one to know that, but it would bother me.

Once I was honest about it, I realized I was looking for her. If she hadn't been there I'd have been disappointed. Where the hell did that come from? It suddenly felt more stupid to keep my mouth shut. She was there, in the distance, in hazy silhouette. So I stopped and meant it when I asked how she was. People can sniff out the question mark.

We became sort of somebodies who once were nobodies. Foolish not to, really. Especially in transitory places.

Mostly I see her in the early afternoon when I walk to the gym or for groceries, so it's a lively scene on the sidewalk. Her walker is purple and a little scraped, baring the metal beneath but sturdy, with black wheels and grips. There's often some purple in her loose and modest clothes, sometimes just a few dots lost in the mix. Her hair is swept back into a small, tight and shiny ponytail. It is jet black but rimming her temples are wide arrows of ash grey. I rarely see her standing, but now and then catch her during the inching arc of the shade. Her walk is plodding but regular and stooped over the bars of the walker her meaty arms jostle with the uneven pavement. Once she sits, she settles into a posture that seems inevitable and solid, like a outcropping of rock.

Her face is without creases and usually gleaming from long hours outside. Her eyes are lightly lashed. Guesses at her age would be mostly wrong. She wears no make-up and the occasional piece of pharmacy jewelry. The mouth is wide and shaped like a fat lemon wedge lying on the rind. The yellowed teeth have gaps between each in front and make for an unreserved grin that melts the heart with its candor. I've seen ruler-straight smiles, pearly magazine smiles, that were far less pretty. At least, less lived-in.

Her expression is most often firmly geared in neutral. Her eyes can be hazel granite, just hard. Neither hot or cold. Unconcerned, flat. But that's before she sees you. It makes me happy that when I appear, she shifts hard into instant cheer.

"Hey dahlin', how're YEW doin'?  Yew goin' to the gym?  Where've yew been a few days now?  What's new with yew, everythin' good?"

The voice is broad and flat and the vowels pressed hard through the upper palate and nose, what actors call 'the mask'.  The tone is burnished from a lifetime of tobacco.  And if I lived on Sesame Street, today's episode would be brought to you by the letter 'W'.

I put my hands in my pockets and lean against a tree.  We cover only the easiest and slipperiest topics, nothing ever gets gummed up in our talk, it's all sweet and surface and fast.  The talk couldn't matter less.  It's the talking.  A comfort to us both, I think.  Not for long, just for then, and that's fine.

And I still don't know her name.

As the months go by it starts to fascinate me that I don't.  A year later and I begin thinking I don't want to know it.

I try piecing together her story from her speech: it's not Southern or Midwestern, the vowels and tempo are wrong.  She forms words in a sentence in measured chomps, like huge bites of food carefully chewed.  But that could be her, and not a piece of the puzzle.  I keep figuring that Northeast is likely.  Those W's surgically grafted onto every word are familiar enough to me from Jersey (ie: 'cawwwffee', 'cawwwll me later', 'this is my dawwwghter, Lawwwren'.)

Her sense of humor doesn't lend any clues either.  Northeastern humor is more nakedly caustic, while Southern or Midwestern feigns politeness but is just as barbed under all that sugary frosting.  But her humor has no pointed edge, it's as mild as the rest of her.  A simple delight that a give and take is underway, and no thought of upper hands or turns of phrase.

And I still don't know her name.

Now and then I see her at night.  Early morning, while I'm walking back from the subway after gigs, so it's about one or two.  The streetlamps drench everything with a clotted orange light.  I hate it.  It doesn't illuminate.  It makes everything look grimy and the shadows thicker.  There's a too-rapid heartbeat bass line from a parked car or a second story apartment and I hope like hell it isn't near my bedroom window.  I round the corner and she's there.

Shade isn't a factor then, so she sets up her vigil atop the handicap ramp in front of her building.  From there she has an elevated view of the occasional patrol car or somebody walking their unsnipped pitbull on a heavy chain or a some vain idiot drifting by with a briefcase and his tie yanked away from his neck.  (Here's a hint: I'm not a cop and I don't own a dog.)

"Hey, dahlin', yew just gettin' back from work?  Late.  What do yew do, comin' back this late?"

I tell her half the story, that I'm a pianist and work at night.

"Oh that's nice!  Real nice.  What kind of music do yew play?"

I tell her jazz mostly and that it keeps me busy.  She must see that I'm drooping like a balloon with a slow leak.

"And that's how yew make your livin'?"

I smile and tell her I wouldn't call it a living, but it does keep me alive.

Her laugh drops her chin and leaves her mouth hanging open as a series of 'ha's' is shot through her nose like a machine gun with a slow rate of fire.

I smile bigger now because I'm punchy and she's unguarded and my life is an improbable place.

"So let me ask yew somethin'.  How come yew ain't got no girl?"

The slow leak of the balloon plugs up and I snap to.

"I see yew everyday and I always think, 'this boy is so nice, ain't that a shame he's got no girl'.  I only ever see yew walkin' by yourself."

The stock answer comes too easily, so I tailor it on its way out.  That I spend a lot of time around a lot of strangers so I like being by myself, but that I'm working on the rest and have been on a few dates.

"Aww that's nice.  Yew should.  She got a good heart?"

That's two unseen twists.  I enjoy it.  So I answer that it's too soon to tell.  You never know.

"Awlright.  That's real important, yew know.  Nothin' more important than THAT!  'Cause I think yew gotta good heart too."

I'm unsure she can see my face but I smile for her benefit anyway.  I thank her and say that I need to go to bed but am glad she was outside.  I want to personalize that, but I still can't.  I keep suspecting I never will and don't know why.

"Good to see you too, dahlin'.  Get some sleep.  See you tomorrow."

It's a safe bet.

Then last Thursday.  A thick August noon, and the sky was dirty wool.  To look at it somehow made you squint more than a postcard sunny day.  So instead you hang your head and push through the bathwater like everybody else.

I'd gone down the front steps and could peer off and see her there.  I realized that in two years I'd never walked the other way, when that avenue is much closer.  I always took the longer way.  Why change now?  Well, there would be one change.

She saw me early on and waved with her cigarillo hand and drew vanishing streaks in the air.  Seated next to her was a young Latina unknown to me.  Fairly pretty, if awkward.  She smiled but kept hiding behind the hand that held up her chin.  Either that or her wisdom teeth hurt.

"This is Angela, my aide.  Angela, this is who I was talkin' about.  My friend that passes by."

It was a title I could more than live with, wear with some pride.  Fondness in the transitory place.

"Ain't he handsome?  Told yew.  And that silver hair.  That's nice, don't yew think?  Used to have it longer, got so curly.  That's good luck, yew know.  Silver hair."

I didn't, and said so and was glad to hear it.

"Oh yeah.  Yew'll be lucky.  Besides, even if it ain't lucky, it looks good.  Yew'll have no problem."

I pushed on and grinned as I asked where she was from.

"Awlbany.  Originally, up there.  Yeah.  Awlbany."

What brought her here?  Angela shifted in her seat to listen.

"Well, yew know, it used to be nice, but went bad.  People bringin' knives and guns to clubs and that makes everything go bad.  I never went to those places, but I heard about it.  I lost the place where I was livin'.  So I applied for assistance and they bounced me 'round a bunch of places, then two years ago, I ended up here."

We had both moved to the block at the same time.  I'd pegged her as a fixture like a colonial lighthouse.

Then I felt a little shame.  Her building had seemed like a shelter of some kind, but I never wanted to find out more.  I scarcely know more than that now but still my lack of curiosity made me squirm some.

"I'm applyin' for my new place now though.  So we'll see.  Should be good.  Hope I'm lucky."

I folded my arms and laughed and told her that after all she does have silver hair.

Angela giggled from behind her hiding hand.  From the other, the slow-fire machine gun laugh as she tilted her head back.

"Right, " she chuckled, the smile pulling her cheeks out and narrowing but not dimming her eyes.  The automatic hand raised the cigarillo for a gentle drag.

And then I stuck my hand out and told her my name was Eric.  She reached over and placed a thin palm with a lot of give into my own.

"Eric.  I can remember that, that's easy.  Eric."

Then nothing.

There was a pause shorter than it felt.  I pressed.  Asked what I should call her.

"Randolph."

Now a pause that felt double as long than it was.

I stammered, tried to detect a joke.  Repeated it to her.  Then again.

"Yup.  Randolph.  That's what yew can cawll me.  That's what everybody cawlls me."

Alright, I said, Randolph, now three times I've said it out loud, an incantation, for Christ's sake.  I asked if that was really her first name.

"No.  Yew asked what yew could cawll me.  I said 'Randolph', yew can cawll me that.  It's my last name."

I began to get it.  I asked if anyone knew her first name but already suspected.

"No.  I don't tell people that.  Nobody ever pronounces it right, and I hate that.  I don't tell it.  Nobody knows it but me."

I shook her hand and called her by her name that wasn't.  I asked if she'd still be there when I got back.  She exhaled and the blue spools of smoke knotted the air around her and she squinted a little.

"Probably not.  I've gotta go back to my room to freshen up and change before I come back down later.  But yew'll see me."

I told her that it was a deal, and crossed the street without my answer and was delighted.  I know as much as I need to know.  She's Randolph and I'm her friend that passes by.