I was standing in my power suit gazing out the floor to ceiling window onto 5th Avenue. My role was “greeting” and “degreeting” duty for a fancy pants financial conference. It was mid-session, meaning no one to say “Hello!” or “Have a nice afternoon!” to.
My eyes desperately searched for something stimulating to look at, resisting the temptation to sneak a peek at my watch for the millionth time.
There were men and women in suits (much nicer than mine), tourists with cameras, and the occasional dog, which was a thrill. “If I can count 100 people walking by… I can look at my watch!” Little games like that seem to help long shifts go by faster.
I noticed a tall straggly man plop down on the adjacent side walk outside the CVS. He was wearing a leather jacket, no shirt, and his pants were dripping off his thin frame. Long hair in disarray. Urgency behind his movements. Frantic hands at work.
I didn’t need 20/20 vision to know what he was doing.
Open drug use on the streets of New York has only gotten worse since the pandemic. I snuck a peak at my watch- to my chagrin only 4 minutes had passed. I returned my gaze to the street. Where did he go?!
The UPS truck lurched forward, revealing the man thrashing around in a crazed tizzy of movement. His arms had a mind of their own as they swung every which way. His legs shook and quake, with sporadic lunges and buckling knees. His head went through moments of weightlessness as it dropped and rebounded.
It was like watching a modern dance performance.
Martha Graham would have been inspired by his spirals. Doris Humphrey would have been enamored with his drop swings. Ohad Naharin would have been amazed by his ability to quake, shake, and beautifully lose control- qualities dancers who train in Gaga technique strive to achieve. I played different pieces of music in my head, watching the performance safely from behind the glass.
Only, this wasn’t choreography and he wasn’t exploring movement. This was a psychotic episode. His brain was in another dimension and his body was left to its own devices. Maybe an overdose? Maybe whatever he injected was laced with something?
His drug induced dance continued as dozens of strangers walked by without sparing a glance. Classic New York.
The sound of an ambulance siren pierced through the air knocking his brain back down to earth. He stumbled towards a rogue City Bike and took off, slamming into a woman. She gave him a stern earful before he bolted to the right and she huffed off to the left.
I looked down at my watch. 30 minutes had passed, and it was almost time to clock out and head home.
Another day in New York City.
