While Blonde was going on about the merits of a new designer she loved, I stared absentmindedly out the window. Immediately, I felt something. My gut twisted, muscles spasming as my breath quickened for no apparent reason. Then, at the edge of the window, a man came into view. A man who was stopping traffic. A bald man wearing a white pleated skirt and no shoes.
Though New Yorkers are used to just about anything, the man caused a stir. The crowd parted for him as he tilted his head skyward, spinning in a circle to look at the surrounding buildings as if he’d never seen one before. When he stepped into traffic I stood up involuntarily.
Then a cab hit him.
“Cassie, Christy, Courtney, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go.”
Picking up my bag in a panic, I ran out of the restaurant and into the street. A strange compulsion drew me toward this person who both fascinated and terrified me, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to find him still among the living.
I pushed forward with alarming urgency, shoving people out of the way, even knocking a kid over to get to the man. What is wrong with me? It was like someone had taken over my body and I was just along for the ride.
When I finally wrenched my way to the man’s side, what I saw made me forget all about our first encounter. The impact from the taxi had sent him rolling into oncoming traffic, and he’d been struck at least twice. Blood dripped from his mouth and from a large gash on his head. Road rash ran down his side, and his feet were covered with cuts.
One of his hands was crushed, his very nice abdomen was already bruising, and his right shoulder was ripped up. Onlookers couldn’t seem to figure out what to do except take photographs with their phones.
“Back off!” I screamed uncharacteristically at the crowd. I started edging away a bit when some of them began turning their cameras on me. To be fair, they probably didn’t know what to make of the man. Heck, I didn’t know what to make of him myself. He was alert, which surprised me, considering the state of his body.
From the moment he saw me, his eyes, more amber now than green, never left my face. He was afraid, confused, and in pain. I could feel the emotions coming off him in waves, and the empathy it stirred within me was tangible. It licked my skin with a panicked heat. I felt as if my own body had just gone through the same painful experience. I had to help him.
Though severely injured, he tried to sit up as I approached. “I’ve found you, Young Lily,” he said, the words seeming to carry more weight, more meaning than just the obvious. He looked like an ancient warrior dying on a concrete battlefield.
Kneeling beside him, I touched the smooth skin of his arm lightly and, despite my uncertainty, said gently, “You sure did. And look what you’ve done to yourself.”
The fact that he was hurt, perhaps even dying, coupled with my strange new insight into his feelings made whatever remaining fearful thoughts I had about him dissipate, like little bubbles popping into watery nothingness in the bright sunshine.
He was still crazy, no question about that, but now I believed he was more a pitiable type of insane than an I’m-going-to-kill-you-slowly type. The dark menace and exaggerated sinister qualities I’d branded him with earlier seemed silly to me now. He looked so harmless lying in the street.
Moaning, he shifted and then hissed in pain. I guessed that his leg or maybe even his hip might be fractured. Pulling out my phone, I had just begun dialing 911, when he lifted his non-crushed hand. “Help me,” he pleaded.
I pointed to the phone. “That’s what I’m doing.”
“No.” He shook his head, closing his eyes as he gritted his teeth. After panting for a few seconds, he focused on me again. I stared into his eyes and felt inexplicably mesmerized. The noise of New York City washed away. The world ceased to exist except for the two of us, me and him. And for a moment I imagined sinking into the deep pools of his eyes and being lost forever. Oh, boy, what have I gotten myself into?