A Picture is Worth 1000 words

Jim cursed under his breath as he weaved around groups people aimlessly clumped together, staring up at the skyscraper that loomed above them. He doesn't usually get so worked up. He doesn't mind tourists the way a lot of his coworkers seemed to. He actually enjoys watching people who've never been to the city see all the "tourist" stuff for the first time. The sense of awe and appreciation they have for the things he's been taking for granted his whole life remind him of how lucky he is to have grown up in the city. What he did mind was working near the Empire State Building, and-- now that he was late-- the amount of ducking and dodging it took to make it to the building's front door.

Midtown moves like clockwork. There's a rhythm. People who call the city home feel it in their bones. Millions of headphones pumping millions of beats into millions of ears cannot drown out the heartbeat of New York. They are crossing paths, weaving, side stepping, slow and now fast. Some stare straight ahead; some look down at their phones. Some know exactly where they're going; some let the whim of the changing traffic lights dictate which way they cross the street. All follow the call of a cosmic coxswain who keeps them in sync. They don't have to make eye contact. They don't have to say "excuse me." Each person steps at their own pace as if there was not another soul around, and yet somehow, they don't crash or bump into each other. Hordes of people ebb and flow like waves. Millions of drops of water, all moving within the same current. A tide dictated by the moon almost 239,000 miles above it. A symphony. A choreographed ballet. A well oiled machine. And one hundred other metaphors for something complicated with a lot of parts that makes a perfect whole.

Except during the summer. Summer rolls in hot and humid and with it, descend the tourists, like locusts but with a lot of questions and a poor sense of direction. Though they come year round, summer is when they show up in droves. Yes, it makes getting around a little more difficult, but Jim usually leaves an extra fifteen minutes early to make sure he has time to patiently wade through the crowd. Always the perfect host, he graciously steps aside so as not to ruin pictures. He tries to keep his head up with a pleasant look on his face. He smiles if he makes eye contact, silently inviting the tourists to ask him questions. He likes to give directions and insider tips whenever he can. For example, the sandwiches at the deli two blocks north are bigger and cheaper than the ones across the street. And, if you walk 3 blocks that way, pointing with his whole hand so as not to be rude, the corner bodega has great made-to-order subs that are so big you need a knife and fork to eat them. Plus, they've got those good, biodegradable, recycled bamboo utensils. People love that stuff. He wants them to feel welcome. He knows the only thing better than being in the city is feeling like you belong in the city.

But, today is different. Today, Jim is running 20 mins behind. Getting around the tourists stopping dead in their tracks and navigating entire families that are slowly strolling four abreast, which takes up the whole damn sidewalk, will add another 10 minutes. So, he's looking at a 30- minute-late walk of shame to his desk. That, plus the 87 degrees-before-10am-heat, combined with his company's corporate dress code, made an (understandably) irritated Jim. His socks were damp with sweat making his leather dress shoes feel heavy, like they were filled with warm, sticky mud. His shirt was clinging to his back, but at least it was stopping the beads of sweat from rolling right down the crack of his behind. He watched a woman float by in a flowing skirt and open toe sandals, and muttered something about how unfair it was, while he loosened the tie that was slowly strangling him. Pushing through the crowd, getting more and more agitated by each late minute, he'd finally had enough.

He snapped and loudly yelled at the third family of four to block his path this morning, "Move! It's called a sidewalk, not a sidestand." They all jumped a little, looking around to see where it came from. Jim did not slow down. He rushed between the two adults, slightly shouldering the man. The kids were visibly scared. The woman looked to her husband expectantly as if to say "Do something," and the husband immediately resented her because he absolutely did not want to do any sort of "something." Nevertheless, he turned around stammering, trying to find the right words that would relay enough anger to appease his wife, but hopefully not enough to escalate the situation. He did not like conflict, and he definitely did not want to get the snot beaten out him in front of his wife and children. To his relief, the man was already gone, lost in the crowd, presumably someone else's problem. The wife immediately resented her husband for not sticking up for the family. The kids took note.

With the wind out of their sails, the family of four sullenly walked across the street. There was a deli with stained linoleum floors and harsh white lighting and a few seat-yourself tables in the back. They ordered and sat down to eat small, overpriced, premade sandwiches. The tension was, as they say, so thick it could have been cut with a knife. But, this place only had the cheap plastic knives, the kind that snap under pressure. They chewed quietly, each thinking of anywhere they'd rather be than the harsh city that served lackluster saran-wrapped sandwiches, resentful toward each other, the city, that man. And so, Jim was immortalized as the red-faced, sweaty, miserable man with giant pit stains flailing his suit jacket around, ruining the vacations of innocent families.

Meanwhile, Jim finally stepped into his air conditioned office, relieved to be there and even more relieved to see his boss's empty chair. It looked like all of that rushing and stress was completely unnecessary, as it usually is. One of his coworkers asked him why he was late and he towed the NYC line, making some boilerplate remark about "damn tourists," and everyone chuckled because that's the required response, even though it's not really funny, and actually a terrible excuse. He felt a twinge of guilt, replaying his actions from a few minutes before, especially now that he knew his boss wasn't even there. There had been nothing to worry about; no need to get all worked up; certainly no need to be gruff and forceful, but they were in the way. Weren't they? Someone had to teach them proper sidewalk etiquette, right? He spent a large part of the day, the rest of the week and the following week telling the story again and again. Each time, the family became more inconsiderate, the children brattier, the parents more indignant, willfully ignoring his repeated requests to please step to the side until he had no choice but to take action. Everyone agreed he was in the right. Good for him. Something had to be done. He told it so many times, eventually he began to believe it himself. He would never do such a thing unprovoked. He's a really nice guy.

The end.

Epilogue

Fifteen years later, the family of four will be looking through pictures of their trip and come across one that is blurry. The daughter will make a remark about the poor picture quality and ask why they didn't take another one. "Don't you remember," the father will ask. "That crazy man rushed at us while we were taking pictures. I stepped aside just in time so he wouldn't knock over your mother. And then, when I tried to confront him, he ran away and disappeared into the crowd. Your mother had to talk me out of going after him." "Oh yeah," the youngest will say, "I remember! You were so mad." The wife will nod in agreement. She remembered too. "I was so scared. Thank God you were there. That guy was crazy."