I used to think some things were odd; the woman standing at the corner of Central Avenue and North Clinton dressed in a heavy winter coat, a wool cap and boots…when it is close to 80 degrees; steamy hot. I used to find that odd.
At that particular corner, she stands only a few short blocks from where a specialty factory tailors $2,000 suits…worn by eager, energetic businessmen in Manhattan…only one block from the busy train station ferrying eager people on the Empire Express, around the vast bends in the rivers and into the rising canyons of cement and money.
The divergent paths will never cross…the over dressed woman who waves an illegible placard as she scuttles across North Clinton in the general direction of the red brick train station…and Manhattan. That’s odd. But these days, I no longer find it to be strange.
I think about her heavy, misplaced clothing. There is no transitional clothing for those who stand on the corner of Central Avenue and North Clinton. The journey is winter coats and boots, and then flip flops and t-shirts; nothing in between.
Spring is a luxury ill afforded. It’s winter or summer. It’s black or white. A confused placard or a $2,000 suit. The middle is a luxury too highly priced. The middle is a dangerous place. It should be a safe place, but it’s not. Now that’s odd…
