I
nudged the fellow beside me and nodded toward the young couple. He shook his head in disagreement. I stepped on his foot and leaned
heavily. He quickly relented and offered
the couple a free ride in our carriage along the route they had chosen, “since
we’re going home that way, anyway.”
I
truly hoped they would ride with us.
Walking on the road through Central Park in a blinding snow storm is something only an
idiot would attempt, or a barely handsome young man. I suppose I shouldn’t be so harsh. In truth, I often do it myself. And after all, as the young woman said, it
was a lovely snowfall. It’s impossible
to describe the beauty of falling snow in New York City. The charm in part stems from the covering of
the city’s many visual sins. Then too,
the mantel of pure white helps to hush the incessant noise of a million
automobiles.
I
was relieved when the couple accepted our offer and climbed up into the
carriage. Had they been native New
Yorkers, they might have refused us with suspicion. And maybe with reason, since my partner, free
on a kind of parole from a place you seldom hear about anymore, is not the most
angelic looking individual. The top hat
doesn’t improve him and barely hides his horns.
Myself, you wouldn’t take notice
of me unless I was standing in your living room, all 1400 pounds of me,
swishing my tail and leaving hoof prints on your Oriental carpet.
It was indeed a wonderful evening to be out
and about in the city, but perhaps not a
great night for a carriage ride through the center of the Park. Each driver coming up from behind insisted
on passing, swishing his car in the snow and sliding around us, often getting hardly
beyond the carriage before an oncoming car zoomed down on us like a
bobsled. Cabbies tooted and swore and seemed
to aim at us as I strained to pull the carriage behind me off to the side each
time a vehicle careened our way.
New York City drivers should
stay at home when the snow falls, but instead foul weather brought them out
that night. As conditions worsened, so did
their driving skills, common sense and demeanor. They were like crazed battalions of novice soldiers
turning more inept as they continued to lose the battle.
I
began to feel sorry for myself and wished I’d let my lazy devil of a partner
talk me out of this last trip of the evening.
He and I are from two separate worlds, as different as night and
day. We were paired for that reason, so
that we might better understand humanity.
We crossed
the park and delivered the young couple safely to the Tavern. I’m sure they quickly ran out of money. But that’s not my concern. I’ll come across the two again. Keeping lovers safe while helping out a
little is why we’re here. You could say
we’re old softies, especially for the younger lovebirds.
You
may call us whatever you like … heralds, guardians, cupids. Not all of us have the youth and beauty of
an Adonis or Psyche. We take the physical form we’re given. I’m sometimes sorry I wasn’t made to fly. The view up there is wonderful, surely a lot
better than down here between the traces of my harness. If I were an eagle, you would see my wings
spread in grandeur, rather than watch my backside clomping along ahead of
you.
Ah,
but wishes are for the young. So are
magical evenings and snowy walks in the park.
Age brings wisdom to expose our conceit of self-reliance, and with it the
dawning awareness that a carriage of benevolence has brought us through the
storm.
David Griffin copyright 2009
The Master Story List is here:
http://www.windsweptpress.com/stories.htm
The Master Story List is here:
http://www.windsweptpress.com/stories.htm
