From the Window

           You can’t watch the sunrise from my window, but you can just see the sun peeking over the skyscrapers of 52^nd Street in New York City. Below, the pavement was crowded— as it always was. People walked down the dirty, dusty sidewalks, dodging taxis and eating breakfast on their way to work. A young woman was fighting with an old man in the middle of a street over who had flagged the taxi first. Other taxis honked, and their drivers screamed obscene words from their vehicles. On the sidewalk, mothers wheeled babies to daycares on their way to work. An old man stood on the other side, dressed in rags, cup in hand.

           I watched these scenes unfold from my solitary window. About thirty minutes later, I began to see children tripping over themselves on their way to the park. I wanted to help the little ones getting bullied by the middle schoolers but, of course, I was in my window.

           At ten-thirty or so, a large gathering of tourists paraded down the street, pointing and oohing and aahing at the drab, ugly apartment buildings. They stood in the middle of the street- extremely offended when taxi drivers nearby began honking and yelling. A little girl came skipping into the apartment building next to mine, pigtails flying, lollipop in hand.

           At eleven, it began to drizzle gently. I saw a taxi below slide and crash into another taxi nearby. The drivers got out and began yelling at one another. A traffic officer came over and began yelling with the rest of them. The well-dressed passenger from the first vehicle helped the hysterical woman out from the other taxi. She began sobbing into his shirt, the drivers and police officer paying them no heed. A traffic jam was forming around the wreck.

           At 11:30, the man from the wreck was ushering the woman into a taxi, and they left together. The taxi drivers had managed to settle who had crashed into who, and, neither of their cars being damaged, they moved along with their day.

           The street began to get more crowded as it approached lunch time. It was as packed as it had been all day, when the rain began coming down hard. This was amusing to watch from my window. One minute, people were hustling along as they usually did in the Big Apple, and, the next, the little ant-like people had scattered everywhere, running to and fro, pulling out umbrellas, hoods, raincoats, everyone desperate for a taxi.

           By one, the rain had let up a bit, and the same girl from next door came running out again. A young man strode into the middle of the road and began yelling about the downfall of the Mongolian government. A group of people came over and began cheering him on, but the traffic officers pushed them out of the street.

           At about two, the little girl came running back down the sidewalk, pulling a little boy along with her. They went into their apartment again, just as the sun came out suddenly. With the arrival of the sun came the arrival of another group of protesters. These walked in a line down the sidewalk, hoisting signs and yelling “Let dairy die! Let dairy die!” They proceeded down to the next block. I kept and eye on them for a long time, watching their signs fade into the distance.

           At three o’clock, an old, stooped, yet jolly man wheeled a cart down the street, calling “Ice cream! Five bucks a cone!” Immediately, apartment doors began opening and slamming with calls of “Ice cream!", "Mama, Ice Cream!", "Come on!” The street was suddenly swarming with children, all jumping and yelling, cash stuffed into their little fists. The jolly fellow smiled and began scooping ice cream into cones. A few minutes later, all the children were seated on the front steps of the apartment buildings, licking their cones and wiping their sticky fingers on their shorts.

           Around four, I saw one boy jump up and yell, “Let’s open the fire hydrant!”

           All the kids began screaming and running about. “Great idea!”, “I need to finish my ice cream!”, "My mom says I’m not allowed to play in the fire hydrant,” and so on. Finally, a group of them sprinted over to the fire hydrant at the end of the block. Two older teenage boys opened it for them, and the kids began laughing and squealing.

           About twenty minutes later, a parade of sorts tramped down the sidewalk. I couldn’t tell exactly what it was, but the people were all old women with veils covering their hair and tears running down their faces. They appeared to be singing in what sounded like chant, but I wasn’t quite sure.

           Five o’clock came, and parents began arriving home from work. I watched mothers and fathers pulling loudly protesting children away from the fire hydrant. The streets cleared slightly as all the families went in for dinner. Then, around six, the Saturday night crowd began parading through the neighborhood, some on foot, others in taxis. I watched well-dressed men and women waltz by on their way to dinner, arm-in-arm. From the window, I saw the same couple from the wreck that morning walking down the street, dressed up and obviously on their way to dinner. When they reached the spot of the wreck, tears sprang to their eyes.

           The highlight of my day was around eight-thirty, when I witnessed a young man literally chasing a woman down the sidewalk. The woman was in tears and kept yelling and waving him off, while the man, close on her heels, begged her to reconsider something. She whipped around and began screaming about love and commitment. The he began crying and yelling about freedom and decisions. They went at it for a while, until a middle-aged mother poked her head out of the apartment window opposite mine and began angrily ranting about her sleeping children. The couple moved down the street, bickering all the way.

           I heard my apartment key turn and the door opening. Mom was home from work. I took a last look out of the window. Then I ran out to see my mother- and to tell her about my day from the window.