New York Descriptive Essay

A Story by Angela Horst

A descriptive essay set in New York following several occupants' stories.

Originally written in 2002 for a high school class assignment (descriptive essay).

National Book Foundation

Writing Camp Fiction

Angela Vera Cleere

February 03, 2003

She is a hag of a woman; standing out notably with her hunched form and the squeaky cart that she forever pushes. Her wiry hair is filthy and lacking the usual sheen, clumped with sweat and grime and poking out at haphazard angles from a worn handkerchief that crowns her head. Lackluster, too, are her eyes, watery with age and bloodshot from hours of sleepless nights, always darting... flitting with suspicion. That calculated look vanishes, however, when people wander past. Pursed lips will curve upward into a crooked, beaming smile, revealing rotted teeth and an expression of pleading awareness that she hopes will appeal to the sympathy of the human souls that are locked by her gaze. The grocery-cart wheels would stop their shrill cries, and a cup would be brought forth to prospective helpers, imploring money wordlessly. Sometimes the tinkle of change is rewarded with a kind nod and an even wider smile, and the tin cup would be retrieved from its shaky perch in the air, to be plundered greedily upon by a gnarled hand. The omni-present cart is filled with necessities: threadbare blankets, a half-filled feather pillow or two, even a picture of what the hag once was.

It is a simple photograph framed in wood, bordering an image of a young women smiling at the camera with nervous jade eyes; a figure long forgotten, faded into a vague mist which remains locked in the hags mind, reminiscent of the happier days of her youth. In the picture a mottled calico cat rests in her lap, pale eyes half-mast as it gladly receives the stroking from its plainly beautiful master. The woman is ugly now, a blemish upon the world she traverses day and night, over and over, her tin cup beseeching aid. Her meager clothes drape in faded tatters along her slender shoulders, and a malnourished form is buried within the layers of dilapidated garments.

The streets of New York is where the hag prowls. She passes Rockefeller Center now, trying to ignore the gentle chilled caress of the falling snow, sometimes caught in a white maelstrom as a rogue breeze gathers the flakes up and sends them rushing forward in enigmatic, flurried patterns. Men, women, and children alike rush past her on the wide sidewalk, and it is one man her ancient eyes catch in particular; he is dressed in a fine suit, a brilliant work of haberdashery, walking erect, proud, and determined with a briefcase dangling at his side. Out comes her little tin cup, and her eyes twinkle hopefully, the smile creasing across her face to brandish the few teeth she has remaining. This is to no avail, however. The briefcase-wielding man shifts his gaze briefly to her and then looks away, yet his pace does not slow, nor does a flash of green or the chiming of change emerge from his stiff presence. Another prospective-looking man is not far behind the first, and the tin cup doesn’t slip back beneath the folds of dirty clothing, rather pushed further out.. insisting. The man is forced to halt his steady saunter as the beggar interrupts his path. With a visage of pity and empathy for the less fortunate soul before him, he digs in his pocket and retrieves a handful of leftover change from a previous purchase, depositing it all into the battered cup. Grinning, the queen of rags dips her head in wordless thanks.

The old woman walks further… hearing the delighted shouts and gleeful cries from the skating rink where the statue of Prometheus stands guard in his golden splendor, bare body glistening from the fast-falling snow. Ice sculptures, too, decorate the plaza to promote the Christmas season; angels with delicate wings outstretched and horns drawn to their lips in soundless trumpet to the heavens. Men, women, children, families, friends.. they are all gathered on the skating rink, pirouetting in lackadaisical figure-eights, or clumsily attempting to get to their feet after an unceremonious fall. Looming above the rink in its full grandeur is the famous Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, its branches spread majestically and laden with bulbs of vermilion, gold, silver, emerald, and cerulean, each as large as soccer balls.

Trees complete the landscape by the Rockefeller skating rink, barren and stripped of their leaves from the winters chill. They stand as silent sentinels to the passerby’s, and beneath the naked boughs of one maple tree rests a crudely-erected memorial for the victims of the Twin Towers tragedy. Photos of lost loved ones smile from picture frames leaning askew in the snow, and candles, too, have been wedged into the slush. The flames are a beacon upon their crowns, shunning the darkness solemnly and dancing in a grave waltz - as if knowing their purpose. Bouquets of flowers have been laid carefully in front of the photographs. Daisies, carnations and roses, velvet petals slick with dew from the snow and brown at the edges with age lie in a silent testament to the souls lost on that tragic day. Several people stop before the memorial and bow their heads to give somber prayer to those lost in the heartbreak, the catastrophe that had altered the lives of so many New Yorkers.

Horse carriages are out late tonight with the impending holiday. Jingling bells fastened to equine harnesses add a melodious tune to the air, though they are drowned out by the cacophony of screeching tires and blaring horns that New York holds in notoriety. The hag passes a department store, where a family is emerging from the giant glass doors. Spilling forth from the lobby is the upbeat tunes of Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer and The Twelve Days of Christmas. Mannequins with the necessary curves to promote the clothing effectively pose in the store windows, showing off the latest winter wear in subtly sensual poses. The hag does not give the oblivious mannequins even an evanescent glance, such evidence of wealth having long been programmed out of her mind and interest. From below, the whirling of machinery is a familiar reverberation for the beggar’s ears as she slips past a stairway leading down into the bowels of the subway.

The subway is alive with restless last minute shoppers. Most subway patrons tote colorful bags, shifting their weight uneasily as they wait for their train, anxious glances being cast either at their wrist or to the giant clock adorning the top of the stairway where its hands are almost raised to their zenith. One couple flank a child no older then six. Raven curls bob along with her head as she sleepily grasps tight to the index finger of her father, tugging and swaying his arm gently �" an indolent action to keep slumber from claiming her as well as boredom. A man standing beside her father catches her drowsy azure gaze and smiles at the scene. She has time to only stare blankly at him for a moment before a train slows to an abrupt stop in front of them and the doors open with a rush of air. Her father scoops her up into his arms before boarding, whereupon she wraps an arm around his neck with one arm and rests her chin on his shoulder.. staring lazily behind him and promptly stuffing a thumb in her mouth to be absentmindedly sucked.

The train they are in is full, with many being forced to clutch tight to poles and overhead handles. Most of the faces are grim or lost in thought. Several dip and nod their heads to the beat of their portable CD players, an incomprehensible mix of muffled words and stifled music to the rest accompanying them on their short journey. When the couple reaches their appropriate stop, the child, appearing no less angelic then a rosy-cheeked cherub is fast asleep, head having fallen to the side with her free arm drooping limply. The father readjusts her to get a better hold before brushing past the disorganized group waiting impatiently to board. He quickly navigates the familiar labyrinth of halls and tunnels in the subway, reassured by the breath of winter air that rushes down the stairs from the world above. The father ignores the cart-possessing hag that greets him with a prayerful smile as he emerges from underground, frowning and clutching his wife’s hand firmly as his step quickens.

A curious woman catches the hag’s eye from where she passes the subway, going against the main stream of the sidewalk populous. Her beautiful young face is contorted into a desperate expression, while tears run in shining rivulets down her cheeks, smudged red from winters chill. Her hair falls in golden tresses around her shoulders, though it mirrors the hag’s own, appearing matted with grime and generally neglected. A navy dress is patched in several places and frayed, while white gloves concealing her delicate hands are useless, revealing the tips of her fingers where the cloth has worn away. The women’s eyes, though usually a careless forget-me-not blue, are now clouded with silent anguish and a sheen of tears. They quiver in the hag’s direction, widen in horror, then dart away. Her pace quickens along the crowded street, leaving the old woman behind. The hag has not time to brandish her cup, nor to adopt her winning smile. She, like the disheartened young woman, is catawampus to the trend on the sidewalk, and brushes past bustling New York residents. Knobby hands grip the handle of her shopping cart firmly as she continues on her chosen path, the shadows enveloping her, while the squeaking of her cart sings shrilly through the chilled night air, unabashed by the darkness.