What You DO

We're on a rock in Central Park and Dear One's telling me about a subway encounter. A livid woman chased her cheating boyfriend through inter-car doors on the Manhattan bridge. There was the quiet consensus from all early morning commuters aboard that comes when one person does something zany. Out of nowhere, the livid woman started wailing on a bystander teenage girl, calling her 'the other woman.' Dear One acted on a terrified impulse, she rushed to the girl's aid, the livid woman was restrained. The train stopped and caused a big delay. We're talking about people's reactions. We're defining heroes.

Apparently, no men came to the girl's aid while the woman was wailing on her. We think about this in the constellation of gender politics. Maybe lady-lady crime doesn't seem as dangerous to them, we think. But still.

A friend of ours weighs in, an older white buddy: he thinks he might have been afraid to intercede because of, he hates to say it, a kind of racial fear. The livid woman was Latina and the girl was black. But the girl wasn't even connected to the couple fighting, Dear One says. We decide this is a lame excuse but a good limit to recognize in yourself, maybe. But still.

A guy on the subway, a skater-dude type, groaned actively about the wait for the police. The girl seemed fine. She wasn't hurt. He had to get to work. We decide he's a class A dirtbag, after the fact.

We talk about times we've called the police when passing homeless people who seem ill on the street. I've done it twice, I say, and feel I am bragging a little. Both people woke up before help arrived. It's better to be safe than sorry. I do the breathing test, she says, I wait to see if they're okay. Or sometimes if I'm on my way somewhere I'll check for them coming back, if they're still there I'll do something.

We're still on the rock.

Dear One is still visibly shaken from the subway encounter three days ago. She makes a face at the basin below.

We get to talking about the future, how the artists we know are beginning to separate like wheat and chaff. Did you know so and so got a “real job.” We talk about compromises and how difficult it all is, how stupidly hard to schedule things and make rent, how for the time being we wouldn't trade it in. We talk about why we do it, if it's so hard. I forget, we were also talking about the annexation of Hawaii and some disturbing nineteenth century imperialist political rhetoric. I think everything you do, no matter what, you ought to be thinking of it as a gift, she says. She says the people looking to be famous, or leave a legacy or an imprint in a future disconnected to now, to another person that's for the wrong reasons, that impulse. So there is a right way and a wrong way, we dismally conclude. And some things are hard, but often these things are quite clear.

Going home, make certain mistakes: pass beggars, pout at suits, ignore questions. We've talked about the political system, too. How you are manipulated. How it is an engine. How the complicated part comes in when do-you-vote-for-Jill-Stein-and-sleep-tight or understand the pulse of the movie Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, sigh and pray in your little booth voting for Obama, deciding to believe in something, moving the world around in 'bigger pictures' when you yourself are oh-so-small. And give yourself points for voting, because that's much of it. /making the eye contact/ defending the victim, that's much of it.

It isn't enough, though. You, I, we must live with that.