Mr. Necessity
The first time it happened, I was 19 and riding the 1 train south from City College to Times Square, so I could hoof it to the main branch of the New York Public Library and gaze intently at the 1867 diary of Charles Dickens (an intimate look at his second tour of America), which is part of the Berg Collection of English and American Literature. I had been granted special permission to look at the diary by the professor whom I owed a rather lengthy term paper.
Here’s the thing about the Metropolitan Transportation Authority, when you’re riding the trains, you keep your head down, a hand on a bar (or your ass in a seat, if available) and your headphones snug over your ears. Making eye contact? Forget about it.
But I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
Ok, so, the 1 train seats alternate from yellow to orange. She was sitting in a yellow seat, flanked by two orange seats, which totally set off the mustard-colored business suit she wore. Even more striking was the tears that streamed down her rich bronze face, and the shudders of her shoulders.
I was nearly standing on top of her. I slipped my headphones down to my neck, tapped her shoulder.
“Hey, is everything alright? Are you OK?”
She looked up, stunned, and wiped tears across her cheeks, but gentle enough not to mess up her makeup too badly. She hesitated, looked around and whispered a reply.
“My pants...the button...popped...I’m on my way to a job interview...I live in Harlem...Can’t get back to change and make the interview.”
I dug into my jeans, pulled out the safety pin and presented it to her.
She grabbed the pin, hesitated, then clasped both hands around mine and smiled.
I have no idea how her interview turned out. Heck, I never saw her on the 1 train ever again. But that began the string of events that earned me my nickname - Mr. Necessity.
Did you need a book of poetry from Shel Silverstein for a book report, but it was checked out of the library and you procrastinated? I picked up a copy on a whim from a street seller in Brooklyn for a buck-fifty. Here, it’s yours.
Did you lose your Metrocard and just spent your last $20 on a few groceries to tide you and your daughter over until tomorrow? Here, a tourist and his wife who were headed to the airport gave me two, loaded with nearly $40 in rides. Here, really, I don’t need two. I have my own, thanks.
Did someone steal you shoes at the homeless shelter, size 12? Yeah, I got those, yeah, size 12 Nike high-tops that sat atop two bags of gently-used clothing in a shopping cart in the alley behind a gentrified high-rise in Harlem. Here, take them. No, this is not a joke.
The stories are endless. Even after I left New York for Bozeman, Montana of all places. I’d taken an assistant professorship in the English Department at Montana State University, where I taught a freshman intro to Dickens class, as well as a creative writing class.
And there, I met Sarah.
Needy? Not really. In need? No more than the rest of us.
Sarah was in her late 30s at the time, free of an abusive marriage with a 13-year-old daughter, Emma, in tow. By day, she worked in the Montana State University Library as an assistant librarian. By night (and some weekends) she waitressed at the Rocking R Bar in downtown Bozeman.
She’d grown up not quite middle-class, but not in poverty. Sure, her dad had to, on occasion, poach deer, ducks and trout to fill the freezer to feed his family. She grew up proud, learned how to scrimp, save and work - hard. She was six credits shy from her bachelor’s degree in public administration, but how important was that now that Emma was a teenager? The ex was no help. He had moved on, set up another family like a franchisee. There was no support for Sarah, for Emma, or the sizable debt he took in the divorce, then reneged upon.
We actually met at a coffee kiosk on campus; I then (somewhat stalkerish, but harmless) followed her to the library. She opened the door for me, and went about her work. We met again in the stacks, and then again at check-out.
“I’m not stalking you,” I said as I picked up my research materials.
“That so?”
“Honest. Just coincidence, don’t you think?”
“Oh, I don’t believe in consequences.”
It took three more chance meetings at the library before she accepted an offer of a coffee and conversation. It took another month-and-a-half of lunches, dinners, a movie and a concert for me to finally be introduced to Emma.
Everything was new and fresh and we talked every day, several times a day. We texted non-stop. She even let me pick up Emma from dance class, then let me cook her favorite meal while Sarah was stuck at the Rocking R when another waitress failed to show up for her shift.
I had feelings. Sarah had reservations. Lots of them, it turned out. Above all, Sarah was fiercely independent. I bided my time, and figured I could just wear her out. Above all, I was persistent.
“So what gives?” Sarah asked one spring day while we sat under a towering elm on campus.
“What gives what?”
“You. Your nickname. The way everyone talks about you behind your back. About your gift.”
“I guess you could say that for some time now, I've been in the right place, at the right time. Consistently.”
She put her head into the crook of my neck, and I breathed in her hair. She smelled like sunshine on a warm summer's day.
“So what, exactly, do you have to give me?” she asked. “What do I need?”
“My heart. My soul. Me. It’s all you need.”
Comments