Riding with the Virgin Mary

"Please," he says. "Can you help me?"

He is an old and bent-over black man, sitting on the steps of the 14th St. ACE-line subway station. I give him $2.

"God bless you," he says.

A younger man behind me infers I've been suckered.

"That's enough for a whole bottle, old man," he says.

I've yearned for a whole bottle myself before, and I've paid three times that much for a drink in a bar where the chairs are roped off for people who pay $400 for a $20 bottle of champagne.

I've certainly been suckered, but not by the old man on the steps.

Anyway, to me he's me. We are one and the same. It's only a somewhat arbitrary and wholly illusional arrangement of energy that separates us, so if a shot of Old Crow makes him happy it makes me happy, too. Besides, he blessed me. It's good to be blessed. It beats being cursed. I'm not picky about who does it. I don't sense that the Pope's blessing has any more potency than the one I get from the old man on the subway station steps. If anything, it may be even more powerful. The Pope goes about blessing things like a painter putting latex on a wall. The old man on the steps blessed me with such spontaneous intensity I felt a surge of complete safety.

All for two bucks.

Minutes later, I'm rushing down the steps to the ACE-line landing where two trains are getting ready to move. One is the A. Not mine. The doors begin to close on the other. I rush over and fling them open. Inside, everyone glares at me for just a moment. I have delayed the train. I am bombarded with a little wave of disapproval.

Two dollars, well spent.

At 50th street, I change trains, this time without causing a delay. I get a seat across from a large round woman with a brown face. Frown lines reach the curve of her jaw. A light mat of dark hair covers her calves.

She is fighting sleep. Sleep is winning.

I watch her long enough to see that she is beautiful. She reminds me of the Virgin Mary. Not the one depicted in thousands of the types of Christian icons that are vigorously advised against in one of the so-called 10 commandments, but one that I recognize from within my gut. I find this perfectly reasonable, since my perception of the world tells me that I am of the same continuous essence as my sister the Virgin Mary, and therefore it's only logical that I recognize her when I see her. Logic also dictates that Mary was never quite as pale as Christianity would have us believe, given she lived in a desert. I suspect as well she was spared the diabolically civilized fine art of shaving her legs.

I disembark the C-train at 86th Street and Central Park West. Dusk fell while I was underground. Dogs of all sorts are pulling their humans in and out of the park. A big black and brown malamute trots across the street in front of me, grinning. He is God spelled backward, after all.

I reach my building completely at peace and grinning like the malamute. Francisco the doorman impulsively tells me I'm a beautiful woman. I laugh and say God bless you, and remark that the town is full of beautiful women. Yes, he says, but you are very beautiful. I smile. I go upstairs to my little room on the fourth floor, by myself, but never, ever, ever alone.

Monday, November 1, 1999

Copyright 2010 by Deborah McAdams. All Rights Reserved. For Reprint Rights, click here.