“ Sir, that will be two dollars and seventy-five cents”

Reaching inside of my leather pockets, I come up empty handed. I tap my front pockets and then back, fumbling between my keys and phone I find nothing but lint. I feel the glares of the passengers behind me like rays of heat. I apologize to the MTA cashier and silently step aside to the subway walls. Catching my breath, I take off my jacket and place it in my back pack. The subway corridors seem unusually warm during the winter. I wipe my sweat from my forehead and proceeded upstairs to 66st street for some air. Taking a deep breath of brisk fall air, I thought of my cognitive map of Manhattan. I thought of its many blanks. I will not be taking the subway today. I turn around to Lincoln center, I recognize the doors of Fordham University’s library to Breads Bakery where I would often study.

Coming to New York City for College was a rite of passage, I followed the legacy set by my three older sisters. Fordham University has a special place in my home. It is home. “Fordham is a home away from home”. My oldest sister Neilofar would often say this when she was upset. The household I grew up in could be strenuous at times, and it seemed to them that those beautiful rod iron gates functioned as a sanctuary. This concept was nothing new to me and my siblings, education was an escape that we all learned young. At the age of twelve, I learned the beauty of a library. The muted colored books on a shelf had a dull beauty to them that I could only learn by running my fingers along their dusty spines. The quite tables taught me how to hold my gasps for breath for three seconds intervals as to not disturbed the defining quiet. The most comfortable spot in the library could be found on top floor between the book shelves, this is often where I would find my solitude. I’ve followed these old tendencies when I would visit Fordham’s library, out of force of habit as well as respect for the home of my sisters. My reciliation ends as I run my fingers along the last iron rod of the Fordham gates. I’ve reached the end of my cognitive map, what lies below 63rd street remains a mystery. I procced onward.

“One, two… three” I mummer this to myself as I carefully watch my steps. There is a certain pattern to avoiding cracks in the side walk. I time my steps: ” one” at the beginning of the block – “two” the end- “three” to the middle of the next – the pattern repeats its self. Humming along, I found that my little game has lead me right into the center of times square. Above my head I see a hundred lights, and in front of me I see a hundred faces. I wonder to what could have compelled each person to come here, at this time, on this day. I look below, to see a homeless man on the side walk with a small can of cashews. His face is wrinkled, black, and tired.  I try to avoid eye contact, but he reaches his hand out to me. The man asks me for fifty-three cents, proclaiming how he needed to find his shoes. I froze in place for a second by his nonsensical ramblings, starring into his withered eyes. After a couple of seconds which felt like eternity, I walked on .

“ Lincoln Center, Columbus Circle, then Times Square” I repeat this to myself, filling in my cognitive map. I follow a slightly deranged women out of Times Square. She parted crowds in time square with nothing but her demeanor. I was fascinated with her, she clearly had a score to settle with someone, but I’m not sure she knew who it was with. I continued with my pattern of avoiding cracks down the blocks of Broadway. Every so often I would take a look at the petite black women I followed to Penn station. Every time took the time to loom up, I would see her next victim of her aggression. First was a trash can on 44th street that made the fatal mistake of being in her way. Next was a tall blond white man who felt the need to comment on the women’s demeanor. I laughed as I saw him almost run when the women turned around to address his comments. Her last victim was a fat middle age taxi driver, who from the comfort of his car yelled at her across the street. Parting with the women, I felt bad for initially judging her. I only followed her only ten blocks, but I was saddened when I imagined how much she is bothered throughout the day. The torment, the anger it she started to make sense to me.

Arriving at Penn station, I see that I had missed my usual 8:15 train and would have to take the 8:44. I reflect on my walk, twenty nine minutes that’s all it took, and that has made all the difference.