Mr. Red

There is a man on the corner of 87th and Amsterdam. I do not know him, and he does not know me. He wears a red tee-shirt with red sweatpants. He wears a red coat with red shoes. He wears a red ski mask on his face. Though he does not know it, in my world, his name is Mr. Red. He has seen many people. He talks and smokes with some of them. Some of them he just stares at, and when the night gets too cold, he throws his joint in a puddle and walks into his apartment. He has a chair with a lamp over it and a journal where he writes about all the people he has seen.

 He writes about the man who cuts flowers in front of the bodega and his journeys through the mountains that he goes on every morning to get the plastic-colored flowers he sells. 

He writes about the man who sleeps in his gold Cadillac in the corner across from him and how he dreams he was more than his shiny car. 

He writes about me, the child with the fast scooter, and how I use it to fly far away, but only at night, when no one is looking.

When his eyes get heavy, he closes the journal. He kisses a framed photo of a young woman he had cut out of the newspaper. He decided long ago that she was his mother. He turns off the light and falls asleep in the chair. 

Mr. Red is an old man, and like many old things, he will die. His rotting body will be found by his landlord three weeks later when he comes to collect his rent. He will be buried on Hart Island, still wearing his red shirt, red pants, red coat, red shoes, and red ski mask. He will not be given a capstone, just a plaque that reads “John Doe.” His apartment will be cleaned out, and his journal will be thrown away. His home will be up for sale in a week.

That same day, the man who sells rainbow roses will just be a man who sells dyed flowers.

The man with the gold Cadillac will just be a pimp.

And I will just be a child with a fast scooter.