You are still here

When I first came to the United States, I had a misconception about New York, thinking that this place is in a period of rapid development, located in the world's financial center, must be rapidly changing, every day "encounter nothing", as a New Yorker living in Manhattan, of course, "do not get old quickly".

Half a year has passed, but this is not the case.

I know the skyscrapers, bus stops, and store signs don't change every day. But wanderers, always wandering and fleeting, right? I did not expect that every day on the street, back and forth only those few familiar "stars".

A short old woman, a big nose, squinting eyes, bare calves, too wide high heels, sometimes painted lipstick, hanging necklaces. In winter, she stands in the sun, and in summer she sits in the shadows, with a fixed smile and a ragged dress, trying her best to be proper, but once she is drunk and her limbs are spread out, she also puts her manners aside. In the morning she is mostly sober, it's hard to believe that she already knows me and always greets me with a salute. Ignore her, it is too much; return it to the courtesy of it, but also afraid that others think I have something to do with it. There are only two ways: one is to walk with your head down, and the other is to go around. Both are not very clever, it is better to send her a little something and ask her to forget me. I'm afraid that she will be more polite as a result, and that will force me to leave Manhattan.

Another tall, kindly old man, cleanly dressed, with an inferior six-stringed violin that looked small compared to his frame. There was a loudspeaker at his feet, but the music he played was still very, very light, and the tune was so simple that I believed it was his composition, but it matched his light hair, light eyebrows, and a light beard. The white shirt is old light gray, jeans washed long faded to fish belly color - passers-by do not feel his presence. He could not get the coins and did not know how to change the way, how can this be?

These two old men always stay on Broadway west of Central Park. The 8th street and 57th district intersection have another style of a beggar: a middle-aged man stout, thick beard, holding empty cans, singing arias from the opera. He went all out, tears, probably crazy, so no one gave alms either. He also missteps, the jar as a prop, like holding a chalice, suddenly up and down, left and right, even if I want to give, it is difficult to put the coins into the jar, can only be understood that he is in the opera for the opera: the volume of the grand, two blocks away has made people feel the opening of the opera.

Beggars, vagrants, sellers, and loafers seem to be a variety of patterns, the worst is to come up to ask you for a cigarette. Genuine beggars are begging for money and not for cigarettes. The vagrants are not begging, are silent as dark shadows, dragging not less clothing, a lifetime of sleep deprivation like curled up on a bench under a tree, dirty as dirty can not be, sometimes in the subway car split opposite, its stench of pungency, simply a miracle.

The sellers do vary a young man, placing a puppet on his lap. Puppet to the onlookers, improvised teasing, wonderful words, people are happy to throw money, some by the puppet sarcastic flirtation for a while, but happily walked over to spread a lot of money. I think that the puppet's face is very annoying, flat, wearing a pair of black-framed glasses, a duck-tongued cap to the eyebrows, and the mouth is particularly wide, according to the sound and open and close. The manipulator was born with a loyal and gentle face, expressionless, with a very small voice, through the handheld loudspeaker, a loud and strange tone, and the face of the puppet very well matched, like a puppet alone with a tongue fight. Everyone was amused when the manipulator also laughed, laughing at the puppet smart, really playful, easy to deal with - with such intelligence, why engage in this business ...... suddenly everyone laughed at me, the puppet was taunting me, because I stared at the manipulator's face, trying to find out what he did The reason for this business - his intelligence will be used in addition to the ridiculous, but also in a terrible place, the day in this small square under the monument to appear, where is he at night?

In this small square, there is always a black man, middle-aged, thin, bare-shouldered, with some light weapons hanging from the wide belt of his jeans, with high-heeled yellow leather riding boots. He does not play or sing or play puppets, just a mouth, talking, almost no change of breath, it's smooth, it's resounding, quite able to stop the pedestrian, especially the black most appreciate his eloquence, the narrator help, very lively. I felt miserable and went to the kiosk to buy paper cigarettes - strangely enough, the audience was so distracted that they forgot to throw money. The smug one, if his purpose lies in the satisfaction of self-esteem, self-esteem is also really diverse.

In contrast is a young man with curly hair, playing electric guitar, very lyrical. Today wear a white, forehead tied is also a white band; tomorrow change a black, forehead tied must also be a black band. Slightly bowed back, a few steps in, a few steps back. When the head is low and tired, the face is tilted back and the neck is sore, then the head is shaken. It seems to have been absorbed in the sound of his piano for a long time as if no one was there. His face is square, his lips are well-defined, and his eyes are full of red wine-like emotions, it is not easy to glance at people. The women around him hastened to catch their eyes, but he closed his eyes indifferently and went on playing his piano. His image, posture, and look were in harmony with the sound of the piano. Many people threw coins and banknotes into the open box. He was sweat-shedding in the summer sun, and the audience was fascinated. There were more and more girls, and the curly-haired man selling his art never wasted his affectionate eyes ...... My curiosity was not in him, but in envisioning the mindset of the girls, who threw money, who waited for that red wine-like glimpse, and the rarer it was, the more they wanted it. The street musician seems to be enlightened, perhaps in a disguised amorous way, but the girls would say, even if it is disguised.

The summer is coming to an end, and in the fall are these same people still dotting the bustling center of Manhattan? I can't remember the hurried passersby, these few different styles of people, who often meet, have become tedious. Yet if one of them is gone for a long time, I feel something is missing - is he gone, is he dead? Once they reappear, I will be happy and say in my heart: Hello, you are still here.