Dog Poop and an Angel

That smell—I can’t put my finger on that smell. Walking down St. Marks Place in the East Village I simply can’t…dog poop. I’ve stepped in dog poop (at least I can put my foot on it). Through my nostrils to my lugs—delicious! A superintendent watering the tree (where do those trees come from?) in front of his building smiles creepily with his—few—teeth hidden behind the broom-like mustache above his upper lip and gives me a thumbs up. The city folk buzz around me for their leader (America) like a nest of bees rushing to make all the honey for their queen. Where are they going? I really don’t know. But I wonder if that woman noticed that her skirt is flying up as she runs to catch the subway. Oh well, she isn’t the first naked person I’ve seen on the street this morning.

Each step brings more surprise to my life. Ah, the mysterious liquid falling from an air conditioner seven flights above, how I have missed you. There is nothing quite like returning to the over glorified Empire State after being away for some time—no, there just is nothing quite like it.

Suit after smile after phone conversation passes by the sign that reads “Homeless, anything helps.” That is, until a teenage girl carrying a skateboard in her left arm with a flat hat on backward tosses a couple coins in his cup. “God bless you, young lady.” I approach the man and ask his name. “Nathaniel, my name is Nathaniel. You know, Nathaniel means gift from God in the Hebrew language”—I guess the strings hanging from my sides and the white disc on my head give it away (I’m Jewish). So the smelly person sitting on the corner in torn clothes with a sad puppy by his side begging for money may have just brought some of the light beaming down on my neck from the east where the sun has risen onto my face. And so I walk away smiling, thanking the dog poop, the naked woman, and the mysterious drop of life for leading me to this present angel.