The Sentinel

“Better let him go.”

The voice came from behind me as I walked down 87th Street early Saturday evening.

I was supremely tired and anxious to get to the nearest subway station. I had spent the last four hours hiking through Central Park with my nature walk Meetup group and I was feeling it.

There was a time when I would’ve walked down from 97th Street, where the tour ended, all the way to Columbus Circle at 59th Street to get the D train to Brooklyn.

It was a beautiful day, there was still some daylight left, I was in no rush to get home, and I’d be walking down Central Park West—why not burn up even more calories?

But I was especially beat on this day, and I had this nagging feeling that maybe I’m getting a little too old for these lengthy strolls. Gosh, I hope not, since I loved walking, and I get a real buzz when I check the step counter on my phone.

But I’d skipped one subway station on the way down, so I reckoned I’d earned my ride home.

I was walking toward the Museum of Natural History stop when I heard what sounded like a small explosion. Looking down the block, I saw a man kicking at some debris on the group.

I later learned that he had thrown a large plastic bottle down on the ground with such force that it had blown up.

The fellow lurched down the block shaking his head and talking to himself. I figured it would probably be a good idea to let him get some distance and I slowed down my pace.

It was disturbing to see this, after emerging from the relative silence and tranquility of the northern end of the park, which was far less crowded than the tourist-packed southern region where the hike had started.

Our group had taken a detour into the North Woods, a 40-acre woodland landscape that is so quiet and secluded you could almost forget you’re in the city.

But I was in the city and here was one of the more disturbing things about urban living.

“Better let him go.”

I looked over my shoulder and saw a gentleman in a dark blue uniform with the name “Carlos” etched on the shirt pocket standing outside an apartment building.

He nodded toward the lurching man.

“You don’t know what’s going on with him,” he said. “Give him some room.”

Out on the street

“Good idea.”

I appreciated the concern and the advice, both of which can be in short supply in New York. I struck up a conservation with Carlos as the lurching man drifted down the street.

He told me that he had been the doorman at the building before switching to maintenance and he made sure to stand outside during his shift.

“I didn’t hang around the hallway,” he said. “I stood out here where I could keep an eye on things.”

There were several occasions where he’d seen young women so wrapped up with their phones that they were unknowingly heading toward some undesirables like the dude I was trying to avoid.

“I didn’t tell them to look out for the guy,” Carlos said. “They don’t know who I am and they might not listen. So, I instead I asked them what time it was, and that was enough to slow them down.”

Keep in mind these weren’t residents of his building. They were just people walking the place, but he felt compelled to help them out.

Our chat was so natural and enjoyable, I probably could’ve spoken with Carlos all evening. I had talked to people in my walking group, of course, but this was the best connection of the day by far.

The lurching man was long gone now, so I thanked Carlos for his help and wished him the best.

Gratitude is an increasingly important element of my mental health toolbox, and I am very grateful that I met this man.

I suppose I owe that lurching man a nod, too, since I never would’ve met Carlos if that nutbagger hadn’t gone all postal on a water bottle.

I got to the subway station, switched to the D at Columbus Circle and happily found a seat on a rather crowded train.

I heard someone talking and I looked up from my paper to see this tall fellow babbling about something I couldn’t quite decipher, although I don’t think he liked white people too much.

I sat there pretending not to see the guy, which is SOP for subway riders, while hoping he would get off at the next stop. Or the one after that. Or that next one, please Dear God, get this freak of out of my life.

The guy eventually did get off the train, but it took quite a while. If Carlos were here, he would’ve advised me to get up from my seat and move to another car as soon as possible.

The guy was big, he was hostile, and you don’t know what he might do. Get away from him even if that means standing all the way home. And Carlos would’ve been right.

Next time, brother, I promise.