Wearily, the man approached, slipping here and there on the icy pavement. He paused, resting on a wellworn handrail outside of a ginmill in the final stages of opening, removed his tweed driving hat, and smoothed back his remaining silver locks. His ears shone a bright red in the early morning sunlight, and the sky was clear, and blue.
It was just another few steps, maybe half a block, until he would decend into the embracing warmth and step lightly onto an awaiting car and fly for Penn. Station. He had paid the doorman of his building, a massive, kind Puerto Rican man named Jesus, to send ahead of him the presents he had bought for his daughter Lisa, her husband James, and their brand new baby Mattie, who lived in Southold, far out on the tongue of Long Island.
He smiled gleefully to himself, thinking of Jesus' kindness, and at the thought of bouncing his first and only grandchild on the worn but clean slacks he'd had since 1972. So, in that seldom state of happiness did he approach the stairs, and failed to notice the police tape blocking off the entrance until it arrested his descent.
"What's this," he asked to the cold wind, the patches of windblown snow. Backing up slowly, freeing himself from the tenuous grasp, he turned, bewildered, and scanned his memory for the next available entrace to the veins and arteries of that fine city, his home for as long as he could remember.
...
Four blocks south, the old man paused again, puffing, for he had hurried, his excitement at seeing the new baby ebbing slightly at the frigid effort, only to come quickly rushing back in more full force every few steps. He rounded the corner, walked a few steps but spied, with his failing eyes, another distant yellow flutter. Crestfallen, deposed and down-right sad, the old man turned, and made for the 24-hour Pakistani market he knew would be one ave. block north.
He bent over slightly to read the wind-whipped paper, cursing himself for not brining his reading classes; he kept a pair at his daughter's cozy home.
But, finally:
MTA WORKER'S STRIKE -
GOTHAM IN STRANGLEHOLD
His heart jumped, fluttering erratically. After a few deep breaths, he looked around suspiciously, and guardedly removed his wallet, which contained just enough for the train fares there and back; he had spent the bulk of his meagre pension on baby things, and, in a fit of paternal goodness, on a nice, white gold necklace for his daughter, of whom he was so proud.
On the verge of tears, he quickly shuffled the ten or so blocks back to his apartment, quietly cursing the stoplights for marring his desperate progress, and finally, in a state of near panic, leaned heavily on the reception desk of the moderate building he called home.
"Jesus... please... please call Lisa... her number is..."
"Mr. Goodlit, calm down. You left out the back! so I could not tell you the subways are out. Workers striking today."
"I must... call her... find a way to get there..."
"I have cousin, Ramon, he driving out there later today. He can take you."
"No... must call her now..."
"Here, use my cellphone. What's the number?"
"631... damn it! Give me the phone!"
Jesus shrugged and handed the cellphone to Mr. Goodlit.
As he reached for it, pain flashed across his lined face, and his left side seemed to go slack. He tumbled to the ground, bashing his jaw on the tall wooden counter on the way down.
Jesus jumped up and rushed around, through the little swinging door, to kneel next to the fallen man.
"Jesus y Maria. Hold on, Mr. Goodlit." He dialed.
The street were jammed with cars in all directions. A siren blared loudly, startling a baby sleeping on the fourth floor of a rundown tenement.
...
Twenty minutes later two serous paramedics leaped out of the ambulance, which blithely blocked nearly a whole lane. People honked.
But, they were too late. Weak old eyes were gently forced shut, without ever having crinkled and creased at the sight of that newborn's unfound glee.
and so, you forked tongued bastard, I hope you live with the weight of this unfortunate and sad death on your backs. may your snug and smug jobs be taken over by banks upon gleaming banks of faithful processors in an unmarked building somewhere. X
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