(no subject)
A funny thing happened on the way back home from Maine. (Theatrical references aside, I realize now that in New York, this story passes less as 'funny' and more as 'completely normal.') I was exhausted, withdrawn, and trying to push out of my head the insistent worry that I had just left my loving boyfriend alone on some street corner because the age of cell phones has still not sorted out the problems of limited-life batteries. A man sat down next to me and asked if the train was going uptown. I said yes, and went back into my head.
We all know the people who simply like to talk to strangers. I wouldn't be surprised if within the readers of this blog a few of you have, on occasion, just sat down on a cold plastic seat on the 1 train and started talking to the person next to you. And I wouldn't be surprised if people have tried to talk to you, either.
In my case, people talking to me on the subway have about average luck. I usually respond with a word of two, and have on occasion been drawn into some very interesting little chats on my travels. But in moods like the one of Sunday night, it takes an exceptional conversationalist to get me talking. (Sidenote: do subway talkers view their chats on the subway as a game? One point for a response, two points for a smile, ten points for a conversation? Because that would be hilarious.) Sure enough, this man fit the bill. We got to talking.
He was Venezuelan, and told me stories about sleeping in doorways when he first moved to New York. He came to learn medicine, pestered the Board of Education, got a medical degree, and now does eye laser surgery at Columbia Presbyterian on 168th street. He spoke with a heavy accent, words tumbling out rapidly, and would alternate between big smiles and shaking his head in lieu of frowning. His name was Juan. He asked me questions about my eyes, and about my contacts, and about whether I wanted laser surgery. "I never thought about it," I said. "I don't know a lot about it, and anyway, I probably can't afford it." Juan became angry, starting off on a long exclamation about health insurance and how disgraceful it was to him that I, as an American citizen, could not afford what he did evey day. This is not a topic I claim to know much about, so I let him go on, noticing that his words got closer together as he became more passionate.
We talked from 59th street to 168th street, and before he got off the train he gave me a piece of paper with his name and the number of the laser surgery department at his hospital. "You call me on Tuesday," he said when he handed it to me, "You call me and I'll do the surgery for free." I laughed at him, kind of shook my head, and said I'd think about it. He demanded, "Why do you say you'll think about it? It's free!" I shrugged at him. "People here don't trust things that are free," I said.
It's Thursday morning, and I didn't call Juan's hospital on Tuesday. I forgot all about him, honestly, until my contact fell out at the breakfast table just now. Just as I said, I don't trust encounters like that. And I wonder about people up and giving me things. It doesn't seem possible to me that you could 'give' someone surgery. What kind of decision was it, to not call him, to forget all about him? Was it a good one? Was it stupidity or caution, cowardice or smarts?
I have never thought about surgery; contacts are a part of my life, like food. I've had them since I was 13. All I know about laser surgery is a rumor that when it first came out, it was dangerous for high altitudes. And that it can make you go blind. In the meantime, contacts are just a simple thing to me, although I suspect they will become less simple when they are no longer covered under my parent's insurance. (A rapidly approaching day, by the way. As in, within the next couple of months.) They are very easy, cause no annoyance, and have never given me much trouble beyond becoming dry when I stay out late. Occasionally one will drop out, giving me the unpleasant sensation of having my eyeball pop out of my head. But on the whole, I quite like them, and they seem to quite like me. Since I switched from a two-week to a one-day prescription, I don't even carry drops any more. But the thought remains: things could be different.
What would it be like to wake up in the morning and be able to see?
We all know the people who simply like to talk to strangers. I wouldn't be surprised if within the readers of this blog a few of you have, on occasion, just sat down on a cold plastic seat on the 1 train and started talking to the person next to you. And I wouldn't be surprised if people have tried to talk to you, either.
In my case, people talking to me on the subway have about average luck. I usually respond with a word of two, and have on occasion been drawn into some very interesting little chats on my travels. But in moods like the one of Sunday night, it takes an exceptional conversationalist to get me talking. (Sidenote: do subway talkers view their chats on the subway as a game? One point for a response, two points for a smile, ten points for a conversation? Because that would be hilarious.) Sure enough, this man fit the bill. We got to talking.
He was Venezuelan, and told me stories about sleeping in doorways when he first moved to New York. He came to learn medicine, pestered the Board of Education, got a medical degree, and now does eye laser surgery at Columbia Presbyterian on 168th street. He spoke with a heavy accent, words tumbling out rapidly, and would alternate between big smiles and shaking his head in lieu of frowning. His name was Juan. He asked me questions about my eyes, and about my contacts, and about whether I wanted laser surgery. "I never thought about it," I said. "I don't know a lot about it, and anyway, I probably can't afford it." Juan became angry, starting off on a long exclamation about health insurance and how disgraceful it was to him that I, as an American citizen, could not afford what he did evey day. This is not a topic I claim to know much about, so I let him go on, noticing that his words got closer together as he became more passionate.
We talked from 59th street to 168th street, and before he got off the train he gave me a piece of paper with his name and the number of the laser surgery department at his hospital. "You call me on Tuesday," he said when he handed it to me, "You call me and I'll do the surgery for free." I laughed at him, kind of shook my head, and said I'd think about it. He demanded, "Why do you say you'll think about it? It's free!" I shrugged at him. "People here don't trust things that are free," I said.
It's Thursday morning, and I didn't call Juan's hospital on Tuesday. I forgot all about him, honestly, until my contact fell out at the breakfast table just now. Just as I said, I don't trust encounters like that. And I wonder about people up and giving me things. It doesn't seem possible to me that you could 'give' someone surgery. What kind of decision was it, to not call him, to forget all about him? Was it a good one? Was it stupidity or caution, cowardice or smarts?
I have never thought about surgery; contacts are a part of my life, like food. I've had them since I was 13. All I know about laser surgery is a rumor that when it first came out, it was dangerous for high altitudes. And that it can make you go blind. In the meantime, contacts are just a simple thing to me, although I suspect they will become less simple when they are no longer covered under my parent's insurance. (A rapidly approaching day, by the way. As in, within the next couple of months.) They are very easy, cause no annoyance, and have never given me much trouble beyond becoming dry when I stay out late. Occasionally one will drop out, giving me the unpleasant sensation of having my eyeball pop out of my head. But on the whole, I quite like them, and they seem to quite like me. Since I switched from a two-week to a one-day prescription, I don't even carry drops any more. But the thought remains: things could be different.
What would it be like to wake up in the morning and be able to see?