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Description

                                                            Wondering

    He had left his office for a two-hour meeting with a client (mostly schmoozing and ego-stroking, as usual), and had just crossed Broadway in front of the Trinity Church, on his way back to his old office building on John Street. About 50 yards ahead, he was alerted by the flash of metal poles, and then saw a small figure, dressed in white, through a momentary gap in the crowd on the sidewalk, moving to his right down Broadway, toward Battery Park.

    Having a little free time, he decided to walk in that direction, curious to see more. Moving quickly at first, he was suddenly ten yards behind her, not having realized how slowly she had to move. As he slowed down (getting an irritated bump from a large man who had been too close on his heels), he looked more carefully from the side of his eyes, not sure of the gender. Her rear, while rounded and firm looking, was not much wider than her waist (or, he thought later, perhaps her hip braces had flattened her contours), her shoulders were broader than her hips and strong-looking, and her very short red hair helped confuse the issue from behind, as did her small size, barely five feet four tall. It was only when he was next to her that he could see her face, and the gentle swell of her small, low breasts under her white sweater; he realized she was a woman, and a very pretty one at that.

    From the shape of her brown-skinned face, densely covered with darker freckles, he thought she was probably Hispanic, or possibly Portuguese, and seemed to be in her early twenties at most. She looked, from the quick sideways glance he took, to be wearing very little make-up, and he was aware of large, dark brown eyes moving in his direction, as she became aware of his attention. Their eyes met briefly, then she looked away, dismissively, focusing again on her steps. Walking slowly, he passed her, not daring to look back, as much as he wanted to.

    After walking about a hundred yards, he re-crossed Broadway, and stopped to buy a coffee from a street vendor, looking back in her direction while he waited on the short line. Having put on his sunglasses, he looked almost directly at her, taking in more details as she very slowly came closer.

    She was wearing a snug white sweater, with a pale blue turtleneck collar visible under it, the sleeves of a light jacket knotted loosely around her neck; the day had begun dank and chilly, but was now warming up, and people were beginning to shed their coats. Her pants were a different shade of white, lightly creased, fitted fairly neatly to her legs, with long tapered cuffs hanging down in loose folds over the sides of her shoes (naturally, also white, they looked a bit like Topsiders, with thick rubber soles). Try as he might, he could make out no sign, through her heavy clothing, of the braces she had to be wearing, even when he was right next to her.

    He watched her move, fascinated by the effort and care she was expending. Her legs were slightly bent at the knee, clearly locked in that position, as she constantly leaned on her aluminum(?) forearm crutches, which had wide hinged silvery metal loops almost completely surrounding her arms just below the elbows, with a small gap in front. Later, when she came closer, he saw black leather padding inside the loops, and the black neoprene of the crutches’ thick handgrips, to help cushion her small hands against their incessant, recurring burden. She was wearing white leather exercise gloves on her hands, with the lower parts of the fingers exposed.

    Her gait was very slow and careful, and, from the hesitant, very cautious way she moved, he was fairly sure it was one of her first experiences trying to walk alone, on a crowded sidewalk. At each step, she would push down on her crutches, and her rigid body would swing in a few inches, she would move each crutch in turn, cautiously, perhaps eight or ten inches ahead, her entire body leaning forward, and again lift her unbending body slightly, legs flexing minutely at the knees and ankles, her feet barely leaving the ground as they scuffed ahead. At all times, she kept her weight forward, and he judged that that was why her braces were designed to keep her knees slightly bent. If she were to stand too far upright, she might easily overbalance, landing heavily on her back with no way to break her fall.

    He could see the play of her arm and shoulder muscles, under her snug sweater, and was certain that she was a very high paraplegic, almost totally paralyzed below the chest. Her entire body, below the shoulders, moved as one inflexible unit, and he was sure he would have seen the shape of a DHD prosthesis through her clothes, if she were an amputee.

    While he was getting his coffee, she finally reached the curb of Exchange Place, about twenty yards away from him, and he watched, totally absorbed, wondering how she would handle crossing the street.

            Rosana was very aware of the man who had been watching her, and was beginning to be annoyed, as well a bit frightened. It was one thing to be stared at, people had gawked at her in her wheelchair as far back as she could remember. But most people would take a long look, then go back to whatever they had been doing; it made her self-conscious, but she had learned to cope.

            This was very different. For the first time in her life, she was trying to walk upright, out on the street in full view of everyone, without the hospital staff (and fellow patients) around to help her if needed. It was taking every bit of her concentration to keep her balance, and remember all the things she had learned, both in the hospital, and on the short practice “walks” near the hospital. It was an effort to keep from looking down constantly, the only way for her to tell what position her firmly braced, unfeeling lower three quarters was in now. Trusting her sense of balance, without a direct report from her legs, was a major act of faith for her, and she sometimes had to fight the panicky feeling that she was about to fall over on her back.

            This was also the longest “walk” she had ever taken; she had already come all the way from City Hall, where the van had dropped her off, about half a mile back. Rosana had stopped to rest three or four times, leaning on her crutches, and spent about fifteen minutes in Liberty Square propped against a railing, watching the chess players. She had thought of sitting for a while on a bench in Liberty Square, but had been afraid she might not be able to get back to her feet from the low bench, which had had no arm- or backrests. By this time, her hands and elbows were aching badly, from the strain and impact of “walking”, and some of the muscles in her forearms were beginning to feel rubbery; she knew this meant they were becoming glycogen depleted, though she could push them “through the wall” if she had to. She remembered Carly telling her, the human hand, wrist and elbow had never been designed to lift twice the body’s weight several hundred times a day, which was the effort it took to repeatedly accelerate her paralyzed three quarters from stop to go, then stop again, even at her very slow speed.

            She pulled her mind back, and began walking again, concentrating firmly on keeping her gait even and controlled, applying just the right pressure on the crutches for each movement, and putting each crutch in the right position at all times. It was grueling work, and needed all her attention. Rosana temporarily put the crip watcher in the back of her mind, as she reached the curb. There were many ways for a disabled woman to deal with the morbidly curious, and, when the opportunity arose, she would choose one.

            One of the blessings of Manhattan was that there were wheelchair cutouts at almost every corner, making it relatively easy for her to handle curbs, as long as she was careful about keeping her weight forward. She began to look around for a restaurant where she could have a cup of coffee, and rest her weary muscles for a while, before heading to Battery Park and her rendezvous with the van back to the hospital. Naturally, the only place in sight was across Broadway, and up a flight of ten steps, in an older building. Grimacing to herself, she said, under her breath, “You told Carly you wanted to go it alone, to prove you could do it. Next time, stupida, be careful what you wish for, you might get it.” It didn’t help her to remind herself, the whole purpose of dealing with the braces was so she could handle obstacles like steps. Back home, streets and buildings were not easily accessible in a wheelchair, compared to here. So she thought seriously about crossing the street, and climbing the steps.

    Remembering her previous experience crossing Broadway, with the lights changing as she was only halfway across, she hesitated, undecided. Then, with a sense of relief, she saw a policewoman coming her way; TV jokes about cops and donuts aside, the woman would probably be able to direct her to a nearby coffee shop. And she would play a nasty little trick on the sneaky fuck who was ogling her. Rosana was not the shy, blushing, helpless crippled maiden of fiction. Far from it.

            Seeing the cop turn the corner, and begin to saunter down the street away from her, she overcame her shyness, and called out, pitching her voice over the traffic, “Officer.” The woman turned, and, after a moment’s hesitation, crossed the narrow street, stopping in front of Rosana, asking, “Hi, is anything wrong?” She was attractive, seemingly in her early forties, with a pleasant smile, and Rosana thought, happily, she might be Latina. She spoke to her in Spanish, and the policewoman responded in the same language, smiling at Rosana, their eyes almost at a level. Rosana asked her if she knew of a restaurant nearby, explaining ruefully that she wanted to avoid dealing with a lot of steps. While Rosana spoke, she took a couple of looks at her watcher, and could see him becoming increasingly nervous. Good, her strategy was working, the pendejo jerk-off thought he was being reported for stalking. The officer, clearly a trained observer, followed Rosana’s eyes, as he turned and strolled away, unsuccessfully feigning casualness. Looking back at Rosana, her face showed nothing, but Rosana thought she detected concern in her eyes.

            There was a long silence, and then the policewoman pointed down Exchange Place, telling Rosana there was a nice coffee shop just around the corner to the right, with plenty of seats, and a friendly waitress. Rosana thanked her, with her best smile, then turned and started to make her deliberate way in that direction. The policewoman walked with her, not talking, obviously sensing Rosana’s need to concentrate. She did not look behind her, having other plans in case the stalker(?) was still around. To someone with her street experience, the meaning of the girl’s looks and the man’s reactions had been obvious.

            He headed back to his office, feeling somewhat guilty about having been noticed, and possibly frightening the woman.

            To himself, he wished her well, regretting that he would almost certainly never know her story…

Description

                                                            Wondering

    He had left his office for a two-hour meeting with a client (mostly schmoozing and ego-stroking, as usual), and had just crossed Broadway in front of the Trinity Church, on his way back to his old office building on John Street. About 50 yards ahead, he was alerted by the flash of metal poles, and then saw a small figure, dressed in white, through a momentary gap in the crowd on the sidewalk, moving to his right down Broadway, toward Battery Park.

    Having a little free time, he decided to walk in that direction, curious to see more. Moving quickly at first, he was suddenly ten yards behind her, not having realized how slowly she had to move. As he slowed down (getting an irritated bump from a large man who had been too close on his heels), he looked more carefully from the side of his eyes, not sure of the gender. Her rear, while rounded and firm looking, was not much wider than her waist (or, he thought later, perhaps her hip braces had flattened her contours), her shoulders were broader than her hips and strong-looking, and her very short red hair helped confuse the issue from behind, as did her small size, barely five feet four tall. It was only when he was next to her that he could see her face, and the gentle swell of her small, low breasts under her white sweater; he realized she was a woman, and a very pretty one at that.

    From the shape of her brown-skinned face, densely covered with darker freckles, he thought she was probably Hispanic, or possibly Portuguese, and seemed to be in her early twenties at most. She looked, from the quick sideways glance he took, to be wearing very little make-up, and he was aware of large, dark brown eyes moving in his direction, as she became aware of his attention. Their eyes met briefly, then she looked away, dismissively, focusing again on her steps. Walking slowly, he passed her, not daring to look back, as much as he wanted to.

    After walking about a hundred yards, he re-crossed Broadway, and stopped to buy a coffee from a street vendor, looking back in her direction while he waited on the short line. Having put on his sunglasses, he looked almost directly at her, taking in more details as she very slowly came closer.

    She was wearing a snug white sweater, with a pale blue turtleneck collar visible under it, the sleeves of a light jacket knotted loosely around her neck; the day had begun dank and chilly, but was now warming up, and people were beginning to shed their coats. Her pants were a different shade of white, lightly creased, fitted fairly neatly to her legs, with long tapered cuffs hanging down in loose folds over the sides of her shoes (naturally, also white, they looked a bit like Topsiders, with thick rubber soles). Try as he might, he could make out no sign, through her heavy clothing, of the braces she had to be wearing, even when he was right next to her.

    He watched her move, fascinated by the effort and care she was expending. Her legs were slightly bent at the knee, clearly locked in that position, as she constantly leaned on her aluminum(?) forearm crutches, which had wide hinged silvery metal loops almost completely surrounding her arms just below the elbows, with a small gap in front. Later, when she came closer, he saw black leather padding inside the loops, and the black neoprene of the crutches’ thick handgrips, to help cushion her small hands against their incessant, recurring burden. She was wearing white leather exercise gloves on her hands, with the lower parts of the fingers exposed.

    Her gait was very slow and careful, and, from the hesitant, very cautious way she moved, he was fairly sure it was one of her first experiences trying to walk alone, on a crowded sidewalk. At each step, she would push down on her crutches, and her rigid body would swing in a few inches, she would move each crutch in turn, cautiously, perhaps eight or ten inches ahead, her entire body leaning forward, and again lift her unbending body slightly, legs flexing minutely at the knees and ankles, her feet barely leaving the ground as they scuffed ahead. At all times, she kept her weight forward, and he judged that that was why her braces were designed to keep her knees slightly bent. If she were to stand too far upright, she might easily overbalance, landing heavily on her back with no way to break her fall.

    He could see the play of her arm and shoulder muscles, under her snug sweater, and was certain that she was a very high paraplegic, almost totally paralyzed below the chest. Her entire body, below the shoulders, moved as one inflexible unit, and he was sure he would have seen the shape of a DHD prosthesis through her clothes, if she were an amputee.

    While he was getting his coffee, she finally reached the curb of Exchange Place, about twenty yards away from him, and he watched, totally absorbed, wondering how she would handle crossing the street.

            Rosana was very aware of the man who had been watching her, and was beginning to be annoyed, as well a bit frightened. It was one thing to be stared at, people had gawked at her in her wheelchair as far back as she could remember. But most people would take a long look, then go back to whatever they had been doing; it made her self-conscious, but she had learned to cope.

            This was very different. For the first time in her life, she was trying to walk upright, out on the street in full view of everyone, without the hospital staff (and fellow patients) around to help her if needed. It was taking every bit of her concentration to keep her balance, and remember all the things she had learned, both in the hospital, and on the short practice “walks” near the hospital. It was an effort to keep from looking down constantly, the only way for her to tell what position her firmly braced, unfeeling lower three quarters was in now. Trusting her sense of balance, without a direct report from her legs, was a major act of faith for her, and she sometimes had to fight the panicky feeling that she was about to fall over on her back.

            This was also the longest “walk” she had ever taken; she had already come all the way from City Hall, where the van had dropped her off, about half a mile back. Rosana had stopped to rest three or four times, leaning on her crutches, and spent about fifteen minutes in Liberty Square propped against a railing, watching the chess players. She had thought of sitting for a while on a bench in Liberty Square, but had been afraid she might not be able to get back to her feet from the low bench, which had had no arm- or backrests. By this time, her hands and elbows were aching badly, from the strain and impact of “walking”, and some of the muscles in her forearms were beginning to feel rubbery; she knew this meant they were becoming glycogen depleted, though she could push them “through the wall” if she had to. She remembered Carly telling her, the human hand, wrist and elbow had never been designed to lift twice the body’s weight several hundred times a day, which was the effort it took to repeatedly accelerate her paralyzed three quarters from stop to go, then stop again, even at her very slow speed.

            She pulled her mind back, and began walking again, concentrating firmly on keeping her gait even and controlled, applying just the right pressure on the crutches for each movement, and putting each crutch in the right position at all times. It was grueling work, and needed all her attention. Rosana temporarily put the crip watcher in the back of her mind, as she reached the curb. There were many ways for a disabled woman to deal with the morbidly curious, and, when the opportunity arose, she would choose one.

            One of the blessings of Manhattan was that there were wheelchair cutouts at almost every corner, making it relatively easy for her to handle curbs, as long as she was careful about keeping her weight forward. She began to look around for a restaurant where she could have a cup of coffee, and rest her weary muscles for a while, before heading to Battery Park and her rendezvous with the van back to the hospital. Naturally, the only place in sight was across Broadway, and up a flight of ten steps, in an older building. Grimacing to herself, she said, under her breath, “You told Carly you wanted to go it alone, to prove you could do it. Next time, stupida, be careful what you wish for, you might get it.” It didn’t help her to remind herself, the whole purpose of dealing with the braces was so she could handle obstacles like steps. Back home, streets and buildings were not easily accessible in a wheelchair, compared to here. So she thought seriously about crossing the street, and climbing the steps.

    Remembering her previous experience crossing Broadway, with the lights changing as she was only halfway across, she hesitated, undecided. Then, with a sense of relief, she saw a policewoman coming her way; TV jokes about cops and donuts aside, the woman would probably be able to direct her to a nearby coffee shop. And she would play a nasty little trick on the sneaky fuck who was ogling her. Rosana was not the shy, blushing, helpless crippled maiden of fiction. Far from it.

            Seeing the cop turn the corner, and begin to saunter down the street away from her, she overcame her shyness, and called out, pitching her voice over the traffic, “Officer.” The woman turned, and, after a moment’s hesitation, crossed the narrow street, stopping in front of Rosana, asking, “Hi, is anything wrong?” She was attractive, seemingly in her early forties, with a pleasant smile, and Rosana thought, happily, she might be Latina. She spoke to her in Spanish, and the policewoman responded in the same language, smiling at Rosana, their eyes almost at a level. Rosana asked her if she knew of a restaurant nearby, explaining ruefully that she wanted to avoid dealing with a lot of steps. While Rosana spoke, she took a couple of looks at her watcher, and could see him becoming increasingly nervous. Good, her strategy was working, the pendejo jerk-off thought he was being reported for stalking. The officer, clearly a trained observer, followed Rosana’s eyes, as he turned and strolled away, unsuccessfully feigning casualness. Looking back at Rosana, her face showed nothing, but Rosana thought she detected concern in her eyes.

            There was a long silence, and then the policewoman pointed down Exchange Place, telling Rosana there was a nice coffee shop just around the corner to the right, with plenty of seats, and a friendly waitress. Rosana thanked her, with her best smile, then turned and started to make her deliberate way in that direction. The policewoman walked with her, not talking, obviously sensing Rosana’s need to concentrate. She did not look behind her, having other plans in case the stalker(?) was still around. To someone with her street experience, the meaning of the girl’s looks and the man’s reactions had been obvious.

            He headed back to his office, feeling somewhat guilty about having been noticed, and possibly frightening the woman.

            To himself, he wished her well, regretting that he would almost certainly never know her story…