All The Young Punks Pt. 25

"Pfft," he smirked. "What are you crying about?"

She closed her fist around the hummingbird and punched him. "Why do you always have to make a joke?" She opened her palm and looked at the pendant. "This is so sweet, and sad."

"She wore that almost every day, but not on the day she..." he stopped. "I took it from her dresser."

"And you've carried it ever since?"

"Every day of my life. Janie is always with me. She's my hummingbird, always buzzing around my shoulder, and in my pocket."

Tina handed Joe the pendant. "Do you know the Seals & Crofts song?"

"I love that song." Joe sang lightly, "Hummingbird don't fly away fly away..."

--- PASSERSBY PASSING BY ----

On Joe's last day in town, he and Simon had breakfast. Walking through Chelsea on their way to The Little Apple Diner, they happened across a junkie lying on the sidewalk in his vomit. Joe first saw him from thirty feet away, observing passersby passing by, walking around the junkie without care. One man stepped over the body.

Joe pulled on Simon's arm as they neared. "We need to check on this guy."

"Why? How many druggies have you passed since you've been here? We see them every day."

"Yeah, but he looks like he's in trouble." Joe stepped over him with one leg, straddling the motionless man who couldn't have been much older than himself. He bent over and poked him.

"Hey, buddy. Are you okay?"

There was no response.

Joe pushed harder. "Hey, Pal. Wake up!"

The junkie exhaled a faint moan, and foam drooled from the corner of his mouth. His eyes were open but lifeless.

Joe pointed towards the diner, "Go to The Apple and call 911. I'll stay with him."

"What?" Simon raised his arms. "You're getting involved?"

Pedestrians on their morning commute had to step around them.

"Yes!" Joe said loudly for all to hear. "I'm not a heartless fucking New Yorker." He pointed again. "Go make the call. And hurry."

Simon huffed and walked off briskly while Joe remained by the junkie. He slapped the kid's face trying to get a response. He rolled him to his side so he wouldn't choke on vomit. Simon returned three minutes later and sat on a nearby stoop. The ambulance took a long time. Joe was frustrated. So many people passed by the scene without a glance. He loathed every one of them.

The paramedics were all business. When Joe tried to explain, a young black medic stopped him. "We see this every day, man. Thanks for calling. Most people don't give a fuck."

"Tell me about it," Joe said loudly as passersby passed by. "No one in this goddamn city gives a fuck!" Joe couldn't contain his rage. "I hate this fucking city!"

"What's your name?" The paramedic asked, "Sensing Joe was in distress." He bent over and checked the pulse of the junkie.

"Joe."

"I'm Derek. You can't let this shit get to you. There's so much of it," he paused and gestured towards the pedestrians. "If they stopped for every junkie they'd never get to..."

"Who says they have to stop and give aid?" Joe cut him off. "They can't even make eye contact. I see them every day, too. This guy is clearly in trouble."

"His pulse is faint. It's good you called. Can you give us some room to work?"

Joe joined Simon on the stoop and watched the two medics administer aid and then load the young man onto a stretcher. Passing New Yorkers barely glanced, unmoved by the scene. Joe fumed.

As the medics loaded the man into the ambulance, Joe handed Derek his business card. "My home number in town is on the back. Call me sometime. I'll buy you lunch, or drinks, whatever."

Derek furrowed his brow. "What the fuck for?"

"I don't know. Maybe I want to be kind to someone who's kind to others."

"I'm just doing my job."

"A job you could never do unless you cared about people."

Derek placed the card in his pocket.

"Do you think he'll make it?" Joe asked.

"I have no idea. I just move them."

As Joe and Simon continued to their breakfast date, Joe muttered. "Sometimes I hate this fucking city."

---- SWEET GESTURE ----

Dr. Barbara Nichols looked at the 6 x 6 x 6 package on her desk wrapped in brown paper with cartoons drawn on it. The return address was unfamiliar, Jones Street, NYC. The fancy cursive handwriting was not familiar. She opened it and smiled.

The inside was packed tight with candy and a card. She opened it. It was written in a sweeping cursive that bordered on calligraphy.

This gift is for little Barbara Nichols, the Lower East Side girl in pigtails who adores everything covered in chocolate. I often think about our last session. I was very pleased to learn a little about your life. After seven years I knew so little. There aren't enough thanks in this world to express my gratitude. I hope chocolates will do.

Love, Joe.

Barbara pulled a smaller box from the larger Economy Candy box, opened it, and removed a chocolate-covered mystery. She bit into it. Sweet juice squirted, dribbling down her lip, and her chin, then fell to her chest.

"Oh shit," she whispered, looking down, as the delightful flavor of maraschino cherry and chocolate took her back in time. She smiled, thinking of Joe and his sweet gesture.

Tina opened a smaller 4 x 4 x 4 box of her favorites. She happily pigged out on Joe's last night in town, like a five-year-old.