I was lucky to get a seat at a little table by the window in a small cafe on West 49th Street. Outside the rain was relentless. Streets were flooded and people on the sidewalk were moving quickly while trying aimlessly to fix umbrellas that kept getting blown inside out by the heavy wind.
The cafe was standing room only for most customers and every time I looked up from my laptop, more drenched New Yorkers were crowding in. I wondered how long this downpour would last but I still had nearly an hour to kill before I needed to be in the office. I had landed my dream job at a Broadway Theater company last year and was making important connections that I hoped would eventually pay off when I completed my own script. I was a girl from a small town in Tennessee but at heart, I had always been a New Yorker.
A bolt of thunder. I looked out the window. The rain wasn’t letting up. Cars were slushing their way through the streets with horns honking for no good reason. A woman standing on the corner got soaked when a BMW drove by too close to the curb. I shook my head and smiled. This was New York, the place where my dreams would come true.
“Excuse me…”
It was a raspy voice. I turned my head and looked up at an old man. His weathered face was unshaven and he was wearing a torn green trench coat. A small black umbrella was sticking out of his coat pocket and dripping water onto his shoes. His deep blue eyes stood out against his pale skin and white tousled hair. There was something in his eyes that was jarring. I wasn’t sure if it was sadness or desperation but I knew I wanted no part of it.
“Is this seat taken?” he asked as he pointed to the second chair at my little table. Damn. I had purposely placed my purse and laptop case there to discourage unwanted company.
“Yes, it is,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry but I’m expecting a friend.”
The old man nodded and smiled. “I understand,” he said softly. “So sorry to bother you.”
Our eye contact lingered for a few seconds and for some reason, I was finding it difficult to look away. He nodded again and with a forced smile, he turned and walked away.
I watched him from the corner of my eye as he made his way to the front of the line and ordered a cup of coffee. He reached deep into the pockets of his trench coat several times to come up with a few crumbled bills and some loose change. With his coffee in hand, he started to walk back in my direction so I gazed out the window with a feigned expression of concern to watch for my imaginary friend who was now clearly late.
The man passed my table without stopping or looking in my direction. He headed straight out the door and into the pouring rain. I watched him as he stood on the sidewalk in front of the cafe. He was already soaked when he pulled the little black umbrella out of his pocket and struggled to open it. It opened for a few seconds but quickly turned inside out in the wind. He closed it and put it back in his pocket. And so he just stood there in the rain and sipped his coffee.
Then it happened.
Another bolt of thunder.
Cars swooshing through the streets.
Drivers honking their horns.
People rushing.
Umbrellas inside out.
A black Ford SUV.
There was no stopping it.
He dropped the coffee, jumped off the curb, and flung himself in front of the SUV.
I screamed and ran outside. There were so many people surrounding him now. We all wanted to help him but it was too late.
He had a story to tell that I will never know. This small part of his story is all that I can share.
Jill Potter is a psychologist and re-emerging writer from New York. Her stories have appeared in The Meridian, My Weekly, and Webzine and her non-fiction work has been published in New York Newsday. She worked on Broadway for several years as a reader and editor of scripts and she is currently working on a screenplay based on a true story from the 1920s.
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