The Trees of Central Park

Last week when I was working in Central Park I saw a man try to kill himself. Or, rather, he tried to have himself killed.

As I counted people entering the park at the Artisan’s Gate at 7th avenue and Central Park South (not pictured), I noticed how he lurched past, his legs bowed out to the sides so that he walked with long, heavy steps--powered from the hip--like someone who had spent years climbing steep mountains. And maybe he had, in his own way. I moved my eyes away from him to my clipboard—one hatchmark.
A fur-coated lady and her pomeranian. Second hatchmark.
A Hispanic nanny pushing a designer-clad tot in a stroller. Hatchmarks three and four.

From the corner of my eye, I could see the first man I had counted standing just inside the gate. The jacket he wore was two sizes too big and where it was torn in places white feathers tufted out. His jeans were ill-fitting, too, and heavily soiled. The wrinkles on his gaunt face ran deep and round, like ripples of sand on the sea floor. Only his skin wasn’t brown or white like sand, but was instead red-purple from over-exposure to the elements.

At first he stood in the middle of the turning lane, just inside a blind curve. A few cars sped around the bend in the road only narrowly missing him. As the roar of each approaching engine grew louder, the man held his arms limply out to the sides and looked up into the trees—the thin film of ice on the boughs caught the afternoon light in a way that made them seem shrouded in gold.

I called 911 and 311 but both numbers were busy. I called out to him from the curb, but either he didn’t hear or didn’t care to hear. When the third car missed him, he dropped to his knees on the asphalt. A taxi approached but, instead of hitting him, the driver laid on his horn and swerved angrily around the kneeling man. At this, a deep, guttural wail rang out from his hollow chest and he began to sob; slowly, regularly, and tearlessly. Sinking farther down with each cry, he finally lay prostrate on the ground, his wild hair the same color as the patch of snow beneath it.

At last my call went through to the park police and minutes later the man was taken away, sobbing still. Tearless still. He offered no resistance to the park rangers, and seemed to see no one, including me, the only person who had watched his progression from walking to kneeling to howling on the cold ground. Instead, this sad man fixed his eyes on the trees in the park.

There are streets in New York City busier and faster moving than West Drive—he could have tried to get killed on any of them. But he had come to the park. Maybe he had come here because the last things he wanted to see in this life were the trees; maybe he thought they were one step closer to heaven than the streets that had been so cruel to him. Maybe.

I returned to Chess and Checkers, filled to the marrow with cold and sorrow. Kicking the snow off my boots and pushing open the door, I was blinded by the February light that cut through the windows of the small building. From some warm, sunny spot emerged a woman with a slow, southern drawl and close-cropped gray hair. She gathered my survey materials, placed them in the appropriate box, and brought me a cup of tea (and a smile). Beverly.*

As she begged me to sit and to take some butter cookies, Beverly told me about how a European man who had come in to play chess had assembled the puzzle she had been working on since yesterday in the space of 5 or 6 minutes (without a picture to guide him). “This is nothing,” he apparently boasted, “I do the rubix cube in 3 minutes.” She chattered excitedly about all of the wonderful people who interact in the park while I listened distractedly, good-naturedly, thinking about the old man in the road.

I sat at a table with tea and my notebook and couldn’t help but listen to the conversation of the two men beside me. Each was hunched over with the weight of age on his shoulders, each had a long, peculiar gray mustache. One of their fathers lived in Israel, though I cannot imagine how old HE must be. One man was American, the other was Russian.

“Jerusalem is dangerous,” remarked the American so slowly that he seemed almost half asleep. Both men studied their chess game. After a minute or more of silence, the Russian made a move then said, “Not so dangerous as before.” He sat back in his chair. “And this would never stop me from going—this city is filled with sacred light. Jews, Muslims, Christians—everyone can see that it is a sacred place. We go even if it is dangerous, because it is sacred.” The American nodded in silence. Their conversation drifted softly along their deep gravel voices into one about the buoyancy of the Dead Sea. Eventually they finished their chess game.

The Russian stood up. “Well, my friend, I must go.” Slowly slowly he raised his hat to his head and put it on. For a moment he gazed out the window and said nothing. The sky was blue like an Alpine brook, the sharp winter light falling through the trees was almost silver. Tapping his hand on the table the Russian asked, “Will you be here tomorrow, my friend?”

“Sure,” replied the American, re-arranging the chess pawns on the board before him. “Unless something comes up.” He smiled and the two men shook hands heartily.
“Dosvedanya,” chuckled the American.
“Dosvedanya!” smiled the Russian, tipping his hat as he walked out the door. His friend remained beside me and picked up a newspaper.
“It’s a good day for a hot coffee, isn’t it?” he said to me, going back to his reading before I could answer yes or no.

Two tables down from us sat three French teens who, from the style of their clothing, I guessed to be from the banlieue Parisienne. One of the girls, whose friends called her Souad, was coughing. Beverly asked quietly if she wanted tea. “We’re not supposed to give it out except to volunteers, but you’re awfully sick, poor thing. And it’s bitter cold out. Tea’ll do you good.” Souad returned to her a blank stare, then in a tone of some annoyance asked her friend, “Qu’est-ce qu’elle veut, celle-là?” (What does she want?). “Chez pas,” (dunno) replied her friend, his eyes locked on his game of chess. Beverly walked away and came back a moment later with hot tea, which she placed before the young girl.

Now Souad understood. “Sankyou” she muttered, smiling faintly and picking up the tea. Beverly smiled broadly and bustled back to her desk. After a few moments of silence, Souad remarked to her friends that New Yorkers were nicer than “les cons de Parisiens,” (Parisian jerks, more or less) and her friends finished up their chess game. The young girl drank her tea, watching Beverly from the corner of her eye.

By this time the shadows on the floor had grown long, and the crystalline winter sun had begun to soften. I finished my tea, thanked Beverly, and tramped back out into the breath-taking cold. As my boots squeaked along in the blue-white snow I reflected on the hallowed light of Jerusalem, the hard heart of a young girl softened by a cup of tea, a desperate man given a second chance at life, and thought perhaps there is something sacred in these Central Park trees.



*I have changed the name of the woman who works at Chess and Checkers.