April 18, 2019--A Lot Of Nice

There's a very good pizza-by-the-slice joint we like on Sixth Avenue and 8th Street.

It's a hole-in-the-wall kind of place that used to be common in New York City until rents soared and small spaces were absorbed by big places to become drug stores and banks.

But this pizzeria hangs on because the rent is still manageable and somehow they are able to survive by charging just a dollar a slice. And so it's packed. Especially midday when mainly blue collar workers show up, leaving their vans double and triple parked, to run in to grab a couple of slices and a can of Coke, also one dollar.

But mainly people crowd in because the pizzas come right out of the oven and they are not just hot but delicious.

We were in there the other day and it wasn't packed, which is unusual. So I was able to squeeze into a place at the counter by the cash register. Rona slipped me a couple of slices and a can of Coke. She waved off a chance to have a spot of her own at the counter, preferring as a true New Yorker, to eat while standing. I no longer have the balance to do that without winding up with mozzarella dripping on my shirt. 

The can of Coke was not opened and I struggled to pop the tab. My PD at times makes this a challenge.

Pressed next to me was a tiny women whose head barely cleared the counter top. 

Without a word, she reached for my soda, which confirmed my suspicion that there was something strange about her. She snatched the Coke from the counter and I decided not to try to get it back and start what I was sure would turn into an argument. Just eat my slices and leave, I thought. I really didn't need the soda. So I turned to concentrate on my slices.

At the same moment I felt her poking my back. When I turned to look at her, really to glare at her for interfering with my eating, she pointed to the can of Coke.

"Drink, drink," she said, smiling, extending the Coke toward me, "Open, open," she said.

I realized, seeing me struggle with it, she had opened it for me. How I missed what she was doing. I felt ashamed not to understand.

Later that day we found ourselves on the number 6 subway. The car was crowded, not a seat available, but without  even looking directly at me a young man jumped from his seat and gestured that I should take it. I waved him off but he insisted. And so I sat.

Next to me was a woman who got up from her seat so Rona could sit next to me. Reluctantly, Rona took it.

Still later we needed to take the Broadway bus from 23rd Street. Again, all seats were taken but this time a middle-age women with three bulging shopping bags got up to give me her seat. I took it only after she allowed me to hold the bags on my lap.

The three of off it turned out got off at the same stop and when I said I'd take her bags for her she insisted she'd prefer to carry them. 

She got off first with Rona following and me trailing.

Standing on the street, encumbered again by her bags, she held the door for me and offered me a hand as I gingerly approached the steps. I took her hand.

Walking to out apartment, I asked Rona what was going on. "New York is a gruff place, not known for acts of kindness."

"Maybe as you're getting older you're looking a bit fragile," Rona said, smiling. "Or it could be at this less than compassionate time people are pushing back by being especially nice."

"Could be," I said, "But maybe it's more because I am getting visibly older."

"Could be," Rona said. 

She put her arm around me as we walked slowly up the street.