July 22 Daily Entry -- Stories

Today I see stories everywhere I look.

Across the street at the 1114 Avenue of the Americas tower, which is a tall white building, there are two bald, muscular window washers hanging out on their scaffolding before the day starts. They're dressed identically--gray tanks, blue harnesses--and they look like in another century they could have been strong-man circus twins. They watch the cars go by, occasionally turning to each other to speak. I imagine they're speaking in Russian accents, and that they left their life of performing when the circus lost its elephants. Now they stand on the scaffolding and face the street, imagining the traffic noise is applause.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a fuzzy, white caterpillar crawling on the stone ledge. It crawls so quickly it's hard for me to examine it, but I manage to get ahead of it and watch it as it comes toward me. It has the proportions of a tiny Westhighland terrier. It even has antennae that look like ears and a tail. I imagine keeping it as a pet. But when I see its face, I believe that maybe it can talk. Perhaps like the caterpillar in Through the Looking Glass it could speak to me in riddles.

I watch a pigeon circle a leaf twice before pecking at it to see if it's food. Behind it its compatriots strut around, heads bobbing, on a greedy hunt for food. I imagine they are enchanted bankers, who entered the park without respecting its magic, cross paths with the mystics who sit herein, and will now spend the rest of their lives scavenging for crumbs.

It's funny that the park is sponsored by Bank of America. Perhaps this is their retirement plan for bankers who make mistakes. Perhaps that is why you never see a baby pigeon.

As always, the park workers toil silently and invisibly. Raking the leaves. Arranging the chairs. The are the caretakers of the magic. Without them weaving their spells all day long, none of this could exist.