I marched on remembering that day, which began like any other. People were passing by, young and old, happy and sad, black and white. But none of them knew my secret. If I had tried to tell them, they would have all thought that I was just another one of the crazies, who roam the streets of New York by the thousands. But I wasnt crazy at all. I was just an average 27-year old guy named Stephen Wright, for whom everything had been going great, and then turned sour. A guy who would have ended up in the gutter, or slit his wrists, if it werent for his friend Andy Lee, an amazing artist and the greatest person in the world. But New York is a thick, worn, old book, filled with a million stories like mine, and striding up the Avenue of the Americas towards home, I could only tell the story of everything that had happened to only one person- me.
Actually, today in and of itself had been nothing special, and was no different from yesterday or the day before. Well more accurately, it would not have been any different if, while walking along Central Park on my way to the Mens Club I had not been accosted by the American Hero one of our local celebrities, an old homeless man with long hair, a ruddy face and a surprisingly lively look in his young blue-grey eyes. The American Hero was an integral part of our neighborhood, as much of a fixture as the corner bakery or the newsstand next to it.
In the last few years they had tried to clean up this side of the park and had placed some of the homeless in shelters, and just moved the rest on to somewhere else, but the American Hero never left (there were rumors that the cops were afraid of him, but this was just typical urban legend bullshit).
Sometimes he might disappear somewhere for a day or two, but he always returned, sitting by the curb every morning on an old wooden crate intently watching the crowd as it passed by. Every so often he would spot someone and shout, Hey mister! Come on over here and let me rub your button for luck!
The strangers almost always just walked on past, taking him for just another street-corner crazy.
Idiots! the locals all whispered after them. There were legends about what happened if you let the Hero rub your button for luck. This magic ritual was responsible for romantic conquests, curing disease, improving careers, and so much more. Of course, when I moved into my one-bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side six years ago as a young, cocky executive on the rise I considered all this just silly superstition. I dismissed it for a long time. Until I realized that I believed in him, just the same as all the others. My belief strengthened even more as my life, which had taken off like a rocket and was exciting and wonderful, suddenly turned to crap lifes losers always believe in miracles more than the winners. Even if it is just because they have nothing else to believe in
I knew the American Hero. Id bought him a hotdog a few times, a pack of cigarettes, a bottle of bourbon Just as many others had done. But not once in the six or so years that I lived in the neighborhood did I ever hear his magic phrase. So today I almost did not turn around when I heard his voice.
Hey, Stevie-boy! the old bum croaked at my back, Whats your problem? You hard of hearing, or you aint got no buttons?
I froze, then I slowly turned around and made my way over to the Hero (when and why he got that nickname no one really knew).
He was sitting down on a creaky old wooden crate and looking up at me. There wasnt a glint of anything special or magical in his gaze, but my heart starting pounding just the same.
Wheres the fire? he grumbled unhappily, Dont worry, you wont be late Come on over here for a sec. Come closer, dont make me get up.
I was in a suit, so not having buttons wasnt an issue. The American Hero indifferently rubbed one of my buttons with a strong, dirty finger and smacked his lips with satisfaction.
You think its time? I asked, smiling unevenly.
As if you dont know! croaked the homeless Hero, lighting up an old cigarette and releasing a toxic cloud of smoke. Oh, its time all right. Im tired of watching you suffer
And how do you know that I am, well suffering, as you put it?
I never complained about my life to the Hero, about that Im sure.
I just see, is all, shrugged the homeless man, Life, it aint at all like people think, Stevie-boy. Remember that. Not at all. Theres so much more to it! Oh boy, and when it really hits rock bottom, thats when the real miracles happen!
Listen, how come no one else can see what you do?
How come pigs cant see the sky? Because thats how they live, with their faces in the dirt. And that is how people live their lives, noses to the grindstone, dont notice whats going on around them OK, forget it, go, find your fortune!
He smiled at me, with a mouth full of big strong teeth, like a horse.
* * *
On the way home I was planning to head off to Whistleroad Town straight away, but once I opened the door and saw the clock I understood that autumn had played one of its tricks on me- despite the warmth it was already ten thirty, and unlike that idiot Vince, I did not plan to go looking for my Hannah in the middle of the night.
But I did not feel like going to sleep no matter what I tried. I undressed, took a shower, turned on the TV for some background noise, but sleep just would not come. No chance- not today. They say that days like today come once in a lifetime, and certainly not to everyone. Although truly, I still did not fully comprehend what had actually happened to me, or what would happen to me, but it was not important- I literally felt pushed along by a powerful unseen current full of energy and joy. I did not feel anything even close to a doubt. Only the waiting was unbearable.
The idea to go find the American Hero came to me out of the blue, by itself, and a second later I felt like there was no way that I could not go. I had a bottle of whisky that was standing on the piano and been there for ages. The fridge was empty, so I decided that I would buy a couple of hot kebabs from the bakery on the corner- it was generally open all night. Quickly putting on some jeans and sneakers, I threw on a sweater over my t-shirt and grabbed the bottle and stuffed it in an old wrinkled paper bag and again ventured out into the cool autumn night.
The bakery was open. The young Lebanese guy behind the counter handed me a big, hot bag which smelled delicious and made me instantly ravenous. I took it and hurried off to the Park.
I did not have to search for the American Hero for long. To avoid any hassle from the cops he made his camp in an overgrown ravine close to the edge of the park. A roaring fire in an old oil drum cast a crimson light onto the thick but fading bushes. Standing close by was an old tent, so perfectly long and straight, that it reminded me of a picture from a textbook about the Civil War.
When I stepped out of the darkness into a patch of light the Hero was not startled or surprised. His lips faintly curled into a smile, a quizzical look in his eye.
So, cant sleep? It figures Hang on, whats that smell? Its not a kebab is it? Excellent! Give it here!
I gave him the bag of kebabs and the bottle, and dragged another wooden crate, identical to the one the American Hero sat on, over to the fire. He had already taken an enormous bite of the kebab and made a significant dent in the bottle as well.
You gonna join me? he asked.
You bet. Im starving.
Then here you go, he said as he handed back the bag with the intoxicatingly fragrant Arabian sandwich.