Courtesy of Kitsuné
If music is to still have much meaning to me, ringing that bell that still had a certain chime at the moment, this would be it.
If music is to still have much meaning to me, ringing that bell that still had a certain chime at the moment, this would be it.
I see the minimalistic progression, and it’s getting simpler but more sophisticated.
That’s what a pop song should sound like.
The thunderstorm came quick and unannounced. The sky in the afternoon, for the most part, was only slightly hazy. But at around 5:30 low flying clouds from nowhere had suddenly engulfed many of the city’s taller buildings, and the atmosphere was consumed by a menacing dark purple hue. The air had turned very humid and suffocating. We all knew a thunderstorm was coming, but none could anticipate if and when it would actually happen. Maybe it was out of a kind of wishful thinking then, or just stupidity, everyone still went about their business as usual, with an almost eerie nonchalance.
And with the first raindrop that touched down on the asphalt, it started to pour. It poured so fast and relentlessly that very soon water had overflown from the city’s sewage onto the narrow streets of Manhattan. But it started mostly as a rather silent storm. The rage from above thumped with excitement, but without any lightning or thunder. It was around 10 minutes into the rain’s insistent fury, when lightning started to flash mutedly over the dark purple horizon to the west of the Hudson.
I was on 32nd street in Korea Town walking towards the 34th street subway station when I was caught in the storm. Even though I was only half a block away to the entrance of the N train, the rain had created a literal, physical barrier between me and my destination. Like everyone else who hadn’t brought an umbrella, I took refuge under one of the many restaurant awnings in the area. Pretty soon, even those with umbrellas and raincoats had joined us. The streets were clear, while cabs and cars on the road drove on cautiously. But the wind remained quiet, so the clusters of people hiding underneath every slight overhang, awning, and scaffolding stayed relatively dry. It was some storm, though, in any case.
A woman with an umbrella ran in next to me, to our small camp of refugees. And without any hesitation or reservation, she had asked me for a cigarette.
“Do you have a cigarette? Cigarette?” She repeated as she closed her umbrella.
“Sorry, I don’t smoke.” I replied.
“Anybody has a cigarette? Anyone?” She moved on almost immediately, in an obvious and desperate attempt for a free smoke.
The crowd gave no response. Her loud appeal had broken the silent rhythm we shared as a group of strangers all quietly waiting for the storm to pass. Some time later, someone had passed her a cigarette and lit it for her. “Thank you so much, really.” She said, enjoying her first puff. I looked at her. She wore some black glasses, a white blouse with gray stripes, a plain navy knee-high skirt, and some very ordinary black heels. She was somewhat attractive, with her long light brown hair dampened by the rain and the moisture in the air. From her outfit one could tell that she was on her way home from work, and she was probably either a paralegal at a law firm, or maybe an account manager at a medium-sized marketing company — a typical fresh-out-of-college living in New York City, bringing home every month a slightly below average paycheck from a less-than-spectacular job.
The woman moved to the back of the group, near the entrance of the Korean restaurant. She chatted a little with the European tourist that gave her the cigarette. The rain seemed to give up a little, but no one had the courage to leave our establishment. Suddenly, just like how she first came to our haven underneath the restaurant awning, she opened her umbrella and dashed into the rain. With very few people walking on the street, we watched her run on the bare sidewalk, making small jumps from time to time to avoid puddles of water. She ran quickly towards Broadway, and had almost reached another scaffolding of a hotel, when she slipped and fell. For a moment, the crowd on 32nd street let out a “oh” in unison as she created a spectacle unto herself. Then, we waited, waited to see what would happen next.
The woman sat in the middle of the sidewalk, in the pouring rain, her umbrella fell and abandoned next to her. She took her glasses off and stared at them thoughtfully. And then she started to cry. She cried so hard it made many of us looked at each other, shocked, and worried. “Is she all right?” A man standing behind me asked. But no one said anything. Her crying was of a sound of tremendous distress and tragedy, audible even through the pounding rain. A kind of expression of pain that you knew belonging not in the world we shared, but perhaps of some loss in the past, of unspeakable misfortune and despair, of something that only she knew. Her hands covering her face, she continued to cry, howling, breaking down, like the storm. The unexpected turn had gotten all of our attention and many more became concerned. A man ventured out from underneath the hotel scaffolding. He knelt next to the woman, and gave her umbrella back into her hand. Still sitting, she held it mindlessly while the rain continued to pour onto her drenched white blouse. The man’s gesture did not help much. She appeared to be locked inmovable inside her world made with only tears and rain. After about what seemed to be an eternity of oblivious, awkward tension between her and the good samaritan, the woman put her glasses back on and waved the man away. She begin to gather herself. Now sobbing mildly, she wiped the tears and water off from her face, and walked towards Broadway again. She walked on the edge of the curb, her head down, avoiding cars on 32nd street and spectators that had witnessed her ordeal.
The storm continued its course. But after the woman disappeared behind the black veil of rain, what used to seem like a furious tantrum from the sky had become somewhat of a long, drawn out noise of just water splashing against the ground. As the rain started to subside, many of us began to leave, bidding each other small goodbyes. I left too. I jogged carefully and made my way to the corner of 32nd and Broadway, into the subway station. As soon as I got home, I took a hot shower. It felt good to be home. And it felt good to take a hot shower after being in a storm. After the shower, I sat on the sofa and began to read the latest issue of The Economist. I wasn’t able to concentrate, though. I thought of the woman. I thought of her asking in desperation for sympathy, for help, for a cigarette. I thought of her crying in the middle of New York City, in the middle of a summer storm no less. Somehow, I had a feeling that perhaps I knew exactly what she was sad about, who she was crying for. Somehow, I think, all of us knew.