HORSE

HORSE DRAWN

February 20, 2003

The first thing I noticed was the smell of 'Horse.' You know what I mean, if you live in Manhattan or anywhere near horses, it's familiar. I confess, I love it. I'd just left Dr. Eric's office on 57th. It was 2 days after the big blizzard and the streets were lined with impassible yard-high snow banks from the plows. Jaywalking was out of the question. I had to trudge half a city block just to cross the street. The streets were salty, slushy, no fun at all. Crosswalks were lakes of ice water, just dying to get into my shoes.

We had just gone through the never very good news of my virus versus the meds, the genotypes, the possibilities, a strategy session. The scorecard looked as though I'd soon have to embrace some old adversaries. Meds I had been with, and grew to hate for their side effects. I was resolute, stubborn. "No AZT, and no Videx, and absolutely no Saquinivir, it gives me the runs. I hate 'em." I was amazed at my boldness. I was a pain in the ass. He knew what was right. He was patient with me.

We negotiated my new cocktail after me having been on a drug 'holiday' for six weeks. Oh Joy, I actually was feeling like 'my old self.' Old self? Was there ever that self? A self I had been so long without I almost forgot it ever existed. These miracle meds had eradicated any chance of a normal life for me. What ever does ‘normal’ mean, anyway? My argument was 'it wasn't broke so why fix it,' and we agreed, at least for now, that my old cocktail was where I'd resume. He's great, I'm blessed with one more Doc on my side in this battle for what -- more time?

I was already late for acupuncture, blocks away, and as I was crossing (trying to) 58th Street, there was that familiar fragrance. I looked around and saw the most wonderful pony. Overall a dappled gray, with spots of brown and gray against a lighter gray and speckled body. Her eyes were large. Her underbelly and legs were caked with salty mud. Even with all the crud she was beautiful! She had a red trimmed white hansom cab behind her decorated with artificial flowers. Huge spoked wheels, iron lined rims. The muddy horse, the cab, those pathetic flowers, all made my heart want to reach out to embrace that duo from a past era that will soon likely leave them behind.

The driver, a wrinkled fossil, bundled in plaid wool scarves, a dust colored overcoat and a beat up old cap that defied description, was squinting against the cold wind. The light was red, and I made eye contact with him, more studying him. I'm finding my mouth going:

"How are you two doing in this mess! I sure wish you were a cab."

"I am," he's smiling warmly, inviting me. Half a smile, half a shrug, half a ‘why not!’

It was one of those instamatic moments when I never know what I'm doing once 'autopilot' takes over. They were waiting at a red light, traffic was already impatient and honking, and he's shouting over the din, "Where are you headed?"

"Broadway at 60th" but I can't afford…..."

More honking, just imagine traffic moving at one tenth the normal speed thanks to the snow piles, and tempers all at the bursting point.

"Hop in"

"You're joking"

"Better hurry"

I still don't remember hoisting myself up into the seat, but it happened.

"But how much?"

"I'm not allowed to take fares on the street. It's on the house"

"NO!"

Too late. The light changes and with a slight lurch, we head slowly across the avenue klip klop klip klop… The cars are honking frantically, and the horse never misses a beat. Klop, klop, Klop… measured and relaxing. Such dignity, what noble bearing. I saw into that wonderful horse's heart; she had clearly endured a great deal. She was like me, a survivor. ..klip klop klop klop that steady paced confident cadence comforted me even though I had still not settled into my seat, and realized we were in the middle of traffic that hated our very existence. Klop.. klop. klop.. perfect reassuring sound. We were a moving target. A skidding vehicle could do awful damage to us in a heart beat. I loved that moment of knowing and of losing fear entirely. Klop, klop, klop, a mantra, a metronome. So many years of my life here in New York, and never ever on one of these 'till now. Wow. I’m replaying the sound of Lucille’s hoofs even as I write this.

My mind settled on Lucille. Had she any kind of a decent life, was she happy, comfortable, well cared for, and most of all… loved? After all an animal is just chattel in the eyes of the law -- a tool, income earner, a thing to be used up and discarded when no longer useful. Like people, I thought. Our economy, our civilization settled on me like a dark cloud. Oh God, NO! Always a sucker for animals, I forced myself to leave these depressing thoughts and realize yes, she is petted and adored by hundreds of tourists weekly who walk on Central Park South where she works, waiting obediently for passengers who will forever carry away the memories of their ride with the cab, Central Park -- and that wonderful horse.

Smiling driver Bob and I shared a few moments of two New Yorkers after a storm which had given their town a blow. Talk of war, of a mayor we felt screwed by, and a president we knew represented someone, but not us. I wanted to know more about this man, and his life and what had brought him here. Where did he sleep, how did he live when he wasn’t working, and did he love Mozart? And what about his relationship with his horse? I was awed that in my life I am able to meet people from so far away from where I came. We navigated Columbus Circle, Lucille's hoofs counting cadence so as to slow down the frantic world speeding around her, and got me to my destination. I forced some money into his hands. My eyes came to rest on his frayed gloves, with the fingertips cut off and open, exposing his coarse gnarled fingers and cracked, filthy nails. Magnificent. His hands had done work in his life. I turned away quickly, to not embarrass the man. There was no time to do more than let my mind gather mini-images for sorting later on.

It ended as abruptly as it began. Me on my road and them on theirs. Just a shared part of a journey. It happens a lot in this city filled with strangers. You meet for a moment and share one small experience of bonding, of helping one another, realizing there is, after all, a commonality. I wonder what impression I made on them. Would I be remembered? What do you say when so much has happened in so short a time? I said a prayer of thanks for me living in New York, for my crazy life, and for small precious moments like this.