Breath

The Financial District is probably one of my favorite parts of New York City.  I took an internship at a museum located in the oldest courthouse in Manhattan.  All of the buildings in that area were old, and that’s why it was so great.  It was falling apart, but people still came to see it.  And I was there to keep it from crumbling.

My father worked at a large insurance company around the corner from the museum.  He was thrilled to know I’d be working near by.  Every Monday we’d get up at 6:00AM, take the train in together, ride on the subway next to each other and walk down William Street to our prospective venues. 

Every day we’d get off the train and he would take the escalator to the main lobby, while I walked up the stairs next to him.  I’d watch him struggle for breath, wheeze a bit, when we’d take the stairs from the subway to Wall Street above.  He took the escalator because he physically couldn’t walk that many stairs up. 

Every day I held my breath.  “Today is the day I may watch my father die,” I would morbidly think to myself.  Watching him go up and down those stairs was one the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

Once we emerged, it was easier.  The walk to Hanover Square was a mild one, and the wafting scent of bagels from a nearby deli was motivation enough for him to continue at an almost spritely gait. 

“They’re filming Wall Street 2 in this building,” he would say as we walked past an ornately Art Deco edifice.  “They film a lot of movies around here.”  He would tell me about his attempts to sneak into shots during his lunch break. 

“Look for the back of my head next to Kevin Costner’s face while he’s riding a motorcycle,” he told me once.

“All right,” he would say to me on cold days.  “I’m done with this snow.  I’m ready for spring.”

He said that every Monday from January until March.

I didn’t always take lunch during my internship - I couldn’t afford it- but on particularly nice days I’d steal out and find somewhere cheap to eat.  Being the Financial District, there was a lot to choose from - Italian, burger joints, gourmet sandwiches, and steak houses. Street vendors seemed to be the favorite, where work-a-holics could throw down a five dollar bill and carry away a greasy container of Hallal or falafel before their ten minute lunch allotment was up. 

The only trustworthy food truck was the Rickshaw Dumpling truck.  It only came out on Monday afternoons, and there were lines down the block for the few hours it was parked.  It was cheap - $6.00 for six dumplings - and they were made with organic, sustainable foods.  The shrimp and lemongrass ones were the best.  They had awesome sauces too, spicy peanut, ponzu, garlic butter…I salivate as I write.

I brought my father there one day.  He doesn’t eat chicken or shrimp, so he got the traditional pork ones.  At the time I was concerned about his health and meal choices, but I knew there would be no swaying him here.  It was only six little dumplings, and nothing was fried or sauteed in butter.  I let it slide.  We sat on a bench in Hanover Square.

“These are pretty good,” he told me.  “Thanks for taking me”

“No problem,” I replied. 

My father and I weren’t big talkers, but not in an awkward way.  We knew how to enjoy each other’s company, the atmosphere around us, and the moment itself, without feeling the need for inane chatter.  He ate those pork dumplings, and I sat on that bench, satisfied. 

All because he lived another day.