Across 42nd Street just before a bus pulls up I see a man dressed in flowing rags who carries an enormous cross over one shoulder. Can't tell—is it corrugated cardboard, plywood, paper bag paper on a frame? All over it writing—can't read it from where I stand across the street. The cross rests on his shoulder and he holds it steady with crossed arms; from one elbow a big white plastic bucket hangs amid a confusion of two or three squeegee brushes, various lengths. He's Squeegee Christ. I want to point him out but then the bus pulls up. I can see through both bus sides of window that he's standing where the line to board must be—can't see him, but there's the dun-colored cross tipped, dipping. He must be in line. I check on the driver, see experience written all over the set of her haunches, the minimal side-turning as passengers board; she answers a question, using no gestures, keeping her hands on the wheel. "Squeegee Christ is coming," I think, "And that cross, will it fit on the bus—no way it fits."
This is how crowds get drawn.

5.23.02