The woman carrying the inflated pool raft in Grand Central today.
It is noteworthy that you picked the first day of autumn on which to lug a 7-foot long inflatable raft–the type commonly seen floating about in swimming pools–around Grand Central.
Autumn, also known as fall. Leaves turning colors. A hint of frost on pumpkins. Cool temps. Football!
Not floating-on-raft-in-pool weather!
And I couldn’t help but wonder–even if you are en route to some swimming pool, why not deflate the raft, fold it up, put it in your bag, and not have to lug the 7-foot long thing all over Grand Central?
You were a woman of about 40. You wore an overcoat and had your head shaved, like Sinead O’Connor. You set the raft down next to the information kiosk a little after 9 this morning, asked your question, then grabbed your raft again and went on your way.
To be honest, I wondered if, perhaps, you were not quite right. You shook your head vehemently at the Information guy. You seemed flustered as you walked away, dropping a schedule as you picked up your raft, dropping the raft when you bent to pick up your schedule. The shaved head…it made me think of an unhinged Sinead tearing the Pope photo to bits. Maybe the raft is your bed.
If illness is the case, then I apologize for this letter; please dispose of it promptly and think of it no more.
I can’t help but wonder what you’re doing right now. Did you find a pool on which to lounge about, letting the gentle Indian Native-American summer breeze (it is to be 74 today) nudge you and your flotation device to all corners of the pool? I hope you did. Because summer is a state of mind. If, in your mind, it’s hazy and hot, surfers are cruising by, we’re sipping Coronas with lime on the beach and the smell of barbecued meat fills the air, well then, all the more power to you.
Sure beats lamenting the failing evening light and dreading the onset of winter.
Respectfully,
Trainjotting