Potholes and Traffic Cones: Dodging Loneliness in NYC

The streets of NYC are dangerous. As an ardent jaywalker, I often find myself forgetting that.
Walking back from the park Saturday morning, I saw an elderly woman with a walker frozen in the middle of an intersection. She looked eclectic in a purple jacket and pants with her nails each painted a different color, but she was obviously well taken care of. Her hair was slicked back into a neat bun and her eyeliner, purple metallic, was flawless.
I was most of the way across the street when I realized that she wasn’t moving. People, including myself, were walking past and cars were barely missing her but there she was, as if glued to the pavement.
Earlier in the day, I’d been thinking a lot about how NYC can be cripplingly lonely. As if the millions of people stacked on top of each other amplify any internal sadness or self-doubt. I could spend a week alone in the woods and be perfectly content, that same week in NYC with technology, entertainment and happy hour is sometimes amazing and sometimes like being frozen in an intersection with people passing you and no one reaching out or even noticing. It’s as if you, affixed in that place, become a piece of the scenery. Just another traffic cone or pothole to be maneuvered around.
I asked the woman if she needed help and she said she was trying to catch a cab. I suggested we walk one block over to Broadway since there would be more taxis. We walked slowly side-by-side, chatting about her son and how she had to get to the Bronx to pick up a check. Griffin, my dog, had fun sniffing her walker and, after a few minutes, her phone rang. A cab she had called earlier that, she said, had never shown up, was outside of her building. I asked her what her address was just in case, and she assured me that she would make it as it was very close by, and we parted ways. As I walked away she called out a thank you, and commented that I look very much like a lawyer.
I don’t know her name or anything about her other than what she told me in those few minutes walking to Broadway, but names and superlatives are not the stuff human connection is made of. Afterwards, walking into my building, I felt as though I was standing taller. As if a heavy backpack had been lifted off of my shoulders. The compression of NYC had been, however briefly, put at bay and the eclectic purple lady was unglued from the intersection.