I sit on the bench facing the skateboard blacktop at Tompkins, and this old man on a scooter comes up to me, and he asks, “India?”
Oh boy. I nod, expecting him to say something embarrassingly sexual, perhaps with a lewd mention of “Princess Jasmine” or “Pussy with Spice.”
He starts talking to his friend about me rather innocently in Spanish, mira, la chica está escribiendo algo, and when I drop the yo también hablo español bomb, he’s like, “You speak Spanish? Wow! How do you practice?”
“I’m a teacher at a Spanish-immersion preschool.”
“I went to pre-school right here on Avenue A a million years ago, and let me tell you, nobody gave a shit about us Boricua kids. We need more people like you.”
“Aw,” I smile, “that makes me feel very good.” It does make me feel very good.
“Stunning smile you got there. I can’t even see it with the you-know-what, pero la sonrisa está en los ojos.”
“Thank you, thank you very much,” I say, with a funny fake bravado. “What about you, sir, are you a Vet?”
“I sure was. Stationed in San Antonio, Air Force base. I can still walk though. This metal crap is just to give me a boost.”
“My mom’s a doctor at the VA. Down in Washington.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I am not.”
“How about that!”
“How old are you, sir?”
“Forty.” I burst into laughter.
“Hey, why are you laughing?”
“You are definitely not forty.”
“Okay, guess my age.”
“Minimum—sixty-five.”
“Oh. Well fine, you got it. You’re so beautiful I didn’t want to tell you how old I am.”
“Aw, thank you.”
“How old are you, twenty?”
“Yeah! I turn twenty-one this Wednesday!”
“Well would you look at that, eh? I’m wishing you the best birthday ever, darling. Whatever your heart desires, ask God, and he’ll give it to you.”
“Thank you for the blessing.”
“You know, you see up there?” he says, pointing at the blue sky, almost as blue as his old foggy eyes. “That’s God. Oye, sweetheart, is the sky manmade? Nope. None of this is manmade. God made everything. God loves you, honey.”
“As I am sure he does you.”
The old man then talks about the Pentecostal Church and Jesus being our Lord and Savior and how he died for our sins and that if we dedicate ourselves to him when we leave this Earth the angels will take us back home, wherever that is. The sudden Evangelist turn in the conversation makes me uncomfortable, so I decide to tell him I am a Hindu, to see if he’d damn me to Hell.
“Oh no, sweetheart, you have a good heart. I can tell. A really good soul you are. No way you’re going to Hell.”
“Whew,” I say sarcastically, “what a relief.”
“Are you right with God? Do you do good by God?”
“I like to think so.”
“I know so.”
“I’m sure you have done good by your God too, sir. It looks like it.”
“Well, we’ll be seeing sooner rather than later, ha!”
“You’ll live a long life.”
“You’re so beautiful, and you got a great personality and heart, I know it, and in times like this I wish I was younger and I had more time.”
“Thank you. You are too kind.”
“I’m off to church now. God bless you, sweetheart. Que Dios te bendiga.”
“Be well, sir. It was wonderful talking to you.” I blow a kiss from the distance as he wheels away. The bespectacled man on the bench to my right and the handsome tennis player on the bench to my left both look at me, bewildered, confused as to why I spent half an hour talking to a strange old man I don’t know. I guess it’s easier for me to talk to supposed bums than most others. I wonder what that says about me.
A homage to early spring afternoons at Tompkins Square Park.
Siri Ranganath 