I was in my twenties when I first moved to New York City and, as all new comers, was affected by the swirl of energy around me. The short story here was the first written from that time. It was a young writer's attempt at finding his place and ultimately, voice. At the time I fancied it to be something The New Yorker might print. (Alas they did not).

None of the scenes written actually occurred, but rather the energy extracted from the environment created the inspiration for the vignettes.

THE LONELINESS OF POINTILLISM 

It hasn't rained for two weeks and the smells are getting bad here in the city. There are a few patches of fresh air in the small park I come to each morning, but as one sun-filled day gives way to the next, they become more scarce.

As I sit, birds come cascading from the sky in flashes. They surround a bench on the far side of the park where a patron of the pigeons places pieces of bread about for them to peck. They come first in large groups from nearby. Soon the trees are emptied. More begin to filter down from other sections of the park.

The clip-clopping of a flat-footed runner gets louder and shortly there passes a girl with man's arms wearing a tee-shirt and shorts. I have seen her run here many times before. Red lipped, eyes shadowed, a big number twelve bounds up and down the back of her untucked jersey. As she goes by her cheeks puff in and out in time to her battering feet. Her leg muscles, contracting-relaxing, are strongly defined and better than mine. I find myself strangely drawn to her.

Although a mild day for August, mild in that the humidity is low, it is still hot. Two women, sitting on a bench off to the left, a baby carriage set between, are laughing as they pass a brown paper bag back and forth. Raising it to their lips, their heads are cocked back for a strong pull. The top of the bottle, (Jack Daniels I think), sticks out of the bag. No words pass between them. They laugh at nothing. The sounds drift over through the trees.

As I sit on this bench, my bench, for the longest time my bench at this time —its paint worn in most places, unrecognizable initials carved throughout, at the far end one of its planks is ripped off the concrete base— as I sit here, shaded by a large tree, waiting for the sun to climb over its top branches and surround me, there comes from down the way, by the entrance, three old women. Lined up shoulder to shoulder, a fragile wall, they span the width of the path. White haired, white bloused, white faced, the middle one is wearing a pale green house coat, (in this heat, I wonder?). They all wear glasses; one brown framed, one black framed, the middle one's are gray with ends curling up and rhinestones implanted in the corners. The two on either side of her seem to be holding her up as they walk down the path. I watch for a moment the slow progression of this procession, turning away finally as they draw near.

There is a young German Shepherd loose. The awkwardness of his limbs reveals his age as he tries to stalk a squirrel. Lowering his body, he moves carefully forward, (step by step, inch by inch, slowly he crept), until suddenly a miss-step. The squirrel is alerted. Rushing forward the shepherd encircles the tree with his barks. With false bravado he leaps up seeking the squirrel whom I have seen scamper across the upper branches of two trees and is by now far away.

An old woman's voice comes between the barks and my thoughts.

“Let's sit down over there. Don't you think this is a nice spot?"

The sun breaks over the top of the tree and touches the corner of my bench. It will soon envelop me in its warmth.

"No, I don't want to stay here," answers an even older voice.

I shade my eyes and look to see the three old women sit as one, a single motion upon the bench opposite me. The one in the middle is the eldest. Probably in her eighties I decide, the two on either side in their sixties. They sit so close together they are like an ancient sandwich, or so I think joking to myself. It is a harmless joke. I don't let them see.

"Look at all the pretty trees around us," the right side says to the inside. "Yes," agrees the left side.

The inside's hands, freckled and shriveled, lay helplessly in her lap. She looks only at her feet; at the single blade of grass, the cigarette butts, the paper, and all the things that frame them. The three seem to belong to each other. I decide the middle is the mother.

"I don't want to stay here," she says again.

"Yes, it's nice here," the other two agree. "It's good to get outside."

"I want to leave," she says. The other two look off to the edges of the park.

Two people, young men they are, start playing Frisbee behind me. I look and see them make diving catches, exaggerated leaps, terrible throws. At first, they are gleeful, joking, it is playful to watch them. But soon their laughter fades and they begin to sweat and make grunting sounds chasing after the Frisbee. No longer a game, their teeth are bared.

Into this scene comes the clip-clopping, for the second time, of the girl runner. Piff-puffing, number bucking, she passes by. Fatted calves, knots as hard as apples, I watch her receding lines dissolve into the sounds of the park. A passing siren from the street invades the land. The sun, who most of the time is my friend, is with me. I feel him on my arms and legs; it is all I feel.

"Oh look, the sun. Let's go over there to sit."

"You two can go over there if you want to but I'm not!"

"It's so nice to sit in the sun, come on."

Opening my eyes to the threesome they seem to stand as one, the two sisters support the mother. She takes infant steps. They are infantesimal. I think she is dragged. They come and sit down on the bench next to mine, which is also covered with sunlight.

"There, you see. You need to get some sun."

"I do not. I'm not staying here."

"Isn't this nice."

The park is becoming more congested now. It always does at this time. A group of men have formed over by the water fountain. They gather there every day and talk loudly in some foreign tongue. Laughing, nonsensical speech, when women pass, they jab each other. Every day it is the same. Although I am a man, once in a while I think they are talking about me. Sometimes when leaving the park, I turn around quickly to see if they are watching. A blur of words. I never know.

"You can do what you want," the old woman says, "but I'm not going to stay here any longer!"

It is an empty threat; she cannot walk by herself. But bringing her hands to her sides she attempts to push herself up.

"I'm not staying here. You two can if you want to but I'm not! Do you hear?!" Her voice is near tears or so it sounds scaring me into attention.

"But you need to get some sun. You can't stay in that dark apartment all the time."

"I don't need the sun. I don't like it here. I'm going to leave. You two can stay if you want to but I'm leaving." Her voice crackles as she makes another attempt to get up, but the air is too heavy.

"Come on now, it's such a nice day out."

A group of boys come strolling down the path. There is a playful swagger to their walk as they push each other. Two of them are markedly bigger and doing most of the pushing. But the smaller boys laugh and pretend to enjoy the game. As they draw near one of the bigger boys grabs hold of a smaller one's shirt and pulls it half over his head.

"Hey Ralph. Hey. Ha ha. Cut it out man. Ha ha. Hey!”

Ralph starts swinging him about while the others laugh. The smaller boy struggles to free himself and just about succeeds when Ralph grabs a loose arm and bends it back.

"Hey Ralph! Stop! That hurts. Hey owwwwww! Come on man, OWWWWWW!"

His screams are half real as they go by. Nobody helps. Ralph has a limb in his hand, a big smile on his face.

"Owwwwww! Come on man. Goddamn it! Stop! OWWW! Cut it out!"

Ralph laughs, squeezing out one more cry before casting him aside. They walk to the end of the path and disappear through the trees bordering the park.

"I said I want to leave!" The old woman says, her eyes falling upon mine. Hers are a water-filled washed-out blue. Mine are an apologetic brown. Jerking her head back she lunges forward with all the strength she can muster and lands in a heap at the base of the bench.

"Oh for Christ's sake!"

Both stand and hoist the old lady up.

"What are we going to do with you!"

"I want to go!"

"What shall we do with her?"

"I don't know."

"Do you think we should take her back?"

"Maybe that's a good idea. I have some shopping to do anyway."

"I want to go!"

"It's such a nice day."

As they guide her towards the exit, (it seems to take them forever to reach it), there passes for the third time the running girl. Body-bounding, feet pounding, she takes deep-throated gulps of air. Her face is polished with sweat, her white shirt gray where it sticks to her back. Quickly passing the three old women, she curves around to the left and is gone. And suddenly I am filled with a terrible sadness, for I realize that although I see her often, other than her breathing, I have never heard the sound of her voice.