New York City Strangers

He's a seven-foot tall black man, skin like the 80% cocoa chocolate bar. He's sitting behind a chess board at Union Square, chin resting on a propped up arm. He's waiting patiently for his next opponent. In passing hesitation, I wink, but only to allow him, or me, the momentary fantasy that he had met his match.

Strangers on the Subway

79-year old white man, worked for The New Yorker for 30 years as a copy editor. He slouches over the book he’s reading, some nobody’s biography. As the Alzheimer’s progresses, he begins to find more and more mistakes on the printed page. He thinks he's getting sharper. What he doesn’t recognize is that he’s filling in all the os and bridging the gap between the double ts.

42-year old Peruvian fellow, studying a 1950s Dick-and-Jane type English learning book with a sort of dreamy zeal. He’s dying to practice his English, and keeps looking up at the friendly-looking girl next to him. Maybe she’d like to talk? She notices and tries to strike up a conversation. He begins to look frantic, the train stops, and he says “Bye Bye.” But instead of getting off, he moves to the other end of the train.

46-year old black man with a neatly trimmed and graying beard, wearing thick shoe laces because he pays attention to what's in style these days. He has a considerably wide space between his eyes. He’s a god-loving, good man that lives his life the best he can despite his mental retardation, a gift from his mother before he was born. She drank every day of her pregnancy to celebrate how happy she was to be having a baby.