John Schatz had been to New York many times. These trips were necessary. Not that he didn’t enjoy New York. Like a trip to Disney World, the city resembled in spirit, if not fact, a carnival midway. You needed plenty of money to have fun. In those days, Schatz had plenty of that.
He liked the taxis and Mom and Pop Italian sandwich shops. He liked staying at the Four Seasons, where he could spread out in a top floor suite. He especially liked the women of New York, stylish, hard, determined to get their way. As with carnies at the hoop toss or guess-your-weight booths they played the age-old game of fleece the sucker. Good for you, Schatz thought. Come and get it.
Schatz left the hotel early. He was always early. He stepped from the lobby onto Broadway, the cloud-speckled May morning like chilled wine. Chase Bank was only five blocks north, on East 8th. Of course he would walk. A dozen steps later he stopped.
A woman lay on the pavement.
A large, rumpled Bloomingdale’s bag had overturned next to her. The sidewalks were busy. A young woman in a business suit and running shoes actually stepped over the bag, deftly avoiding the woman’s arm.
Schatz looked left and right. The others seemed unconcerned. He walked up and leaned down. She was on her back, her eyes open.
“Are you all right?” Schatz wore $400 dollar gloves. A horn honked.
She didn’t answer. He caught the whiff of stale humanity. Everything about her was shabby. She wore a ragged, camel-colored overcoat. The striped running pants were frayed, dirty. A shoe had come off. Her hair was gray and uncombed.
He spoke again. “Can you hear me?”
Someone called to him across the street. “Schatz, is that you?” It was Turley. He stood with Anderson and Pilken. They were headed to his meeting, scheduled for 9:30.
“Get over here,” Schatz shouted back. “This woman needs help.”
“Leave her alone,” Turley yelled. “You’re in New York.” His cohorts were laughing. You couldn’t miss them, well-dressed in three-thousand-dollar suits. Gleaming shoes. Anderson wore a scarf.
Turning back to the woman, Schatz saw her close her eyes. She opened them again. “Can you hear me?” he asked.
His friends were getting into a limo. They were smiling. “Could somebody call an ambulance?” Schatz spoke to those around him. Crowds walked past. He looked toward the Four Seasons, at the doorman, who looked quickly away.
Well, if this was New York…
He knew better than to move her. She might have fallen. Pulling his phone out, he dialed 911. He told them where he was and to hurry. The woman spoke to him.
“I… I am dying.”
Some kind of accent. Caribbean, maybe. Her lips were dry, cracked. “Don’t move,” he said. He took her hand, gently, in his gloved hand. “You’re not dying.”
“Yes. Yes, I am dying.”
“It won’t be long.”
“Don’t leave me.”
“I’m not leaving.”
He held her hand in both of his. Her eyes were dark, inscrutable, rheumy, fading in the morning light.
Schatz was the last to come in. “You’re late,” the president said. In good nature. He needed the business. It was a complicated bit of financing. Turley sat at the long oval table, dividing documents. He represented the note-holder on another obligation. They would sign off on a subordinate position, in return taking a higher rate. While waiting for him Turley had told them all about Schatz’s adventure. There were bemused smiles.
“Where are you from, anyway?” Anderson asked. Like the bank president, all in good humor. Signing, turning to the next page, Schatz told him.
“Minnesota? Must be a nice place.”
“It is.”
“You must not have many homeless there,” Turley said.
“Why do you say that?”
“No reason.”
He kept it up. The others joined in. They couldn’t help themselves. “If you gave her money, she would get up.” “She would get up and run.” “A twenty would have done it.” “She’s a slip and fall artist. You wrecked it.” “In Times Square there’s one every ten feet.” “In the subway…” “In Midtown…”
“Hey Schatz,” Turley said. “If you want to help people, tell them to shop at Gucci. Better bags.”
The men laughed. John Schatz had a final document to sign. Trying to read, he kept seeing an old woman’s fading eyes. “You know something?” he stood, addressing the table. “I don’t need this loan. And I don’t need any of you.”
He walked out. The elevator brought him the lobby, an acre of marble floors, the walls paneled in mahogany. Broadway was bright and crowded with pedestrians, taxis and limousines. At the hotel there was no sign of the stricken woman, or the ambulance which had taken her away. Even her bag was gone.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com