Guarded understanding

Far away from the violent reality that gave its the name in the '70s, Hell's Kitchen is now a peaceful blend of characters, cultures and creeds. I have lived there since I came to New York. The place is noisy, busy, full of tourists, but it is close to everything I like (theaters, parks, stores) and I must confess that  somehow I feel at home there.

It was one of those cold mornings in May. I went up to W 52nd Street on my way to work when, on the corner of 9th Avenue, the pedestrian signal suddenly closed. To kill time, I started looking at what was happening around me. Across 52nd the former Saint Claire's Hospital building, a branch of the extinct Saint Vincent's is closed. Despite the interesting architecture and location, the building agonizes and makes the neighborhood suffer. The windows' boarding's and the gates' heavy chains prevent homeless beggars from trespassing, still they are quite content  peeing right there on the mossy green sidewalk, whereas the rats and other smaller insects do not seem intimidated by the prohibited entry warnings and threats of police action.

Despite those inconveniences, it was through that sidewalk that a middle-aged, chubby brunette wrapped up from head to toe by colorful fabrics of faded silk made her way down toward the Hudson River. Forerunning his mother, a lively seven year-old boy hopped up a few feet away. In the opposite direction, a little dog was coming up secured by the firm hand of a blonde woman, directly discharged from the 70s.  Astonished and curious, the dog and the boy stop and stare at each other's sights. Patients and resigned, the two women now stuck avoid acknowledge each other's presence. With attentive eyes, the mother's hand is ready to grab the boy. The leash is tightly held by the blonde woman's wrist and her senses are quite alert to the smallest sign of dog's or child's push. After a moment's hesitation, the dog lowers his moistly nose to smell the boy, and the boy slowly stretches the tips of his slender fingers to feel the softness and warmth of the dog's hairs.

Simultaneously, a motherly command freezes the child and the dog's owner pull backs the animal. For a few seconds, those quick protests bring them into a stalemate of fear. Then, quietly the boy puts one hand in his pocket and removes a tiny harmonica from there. Keeping the rhythm with his right foot, the little one starts playing an invented tune just for the dog. The animal reacts shaking his furry little head from one side to the other, in a strange dance of the senses. The concert between the child and the dog relaxes the two women. They glance at each other and smile. Babbling fast, they share some soft impressions about the unexpected brightness and coldness of that morning, the promises of a lost childhood, the health of children and dogs ... Timidly, the women interact. The boy continues to play his melody just for the dog and both enjoy a rare moment of guarded understanding on the street.

A sudden crack stops the moment. The voices' keys now higher, cheerful and casual, acquire metallic nuances of breakage. The sense of familiarity is called off. Pulling the veil while checking the sidewalk's poor condition, the mother called the boy. He puts his harmonica back in his pocket and in just a few seconds, bounces down half a block away, oblivious to the dog. Adjusting her thick glasses, the blond woman approaches a showcase ad. The dog sniffs the latest information left at the base of a lamppost.

The cell phone vibrates in my pocket. I cross the street reading the message.

Licia Olivetti