I’m crossing Park Avenue, an elderly man on a walker is approaching the opposite way, losing his balance, falling on the esplanade. In his 80s, extremely tall…imagine Gulliver taking a spill.
I run over, along with a young man holding what smells like a hot lunch, and since he seems more shaken than hurt, we attempt to get him up.
But his long legs just won’t straighten.
Suddenly, a middle-aged man with Cesar Romero hair, is between us on his knees saying in broken English, “Don’t’a worry, I will take yua home…no charge.”
I look up to see a taxi, double-parked, causing a tiny traffic jam no one is complaining about watching, why this is so.
He, along with the young man who hands me his lunch, bring the man finally to his feet.
“I’m fine,” he says, all 6’3 of him, towering over all of us like an aging athlete.
He pats my arm, smiles at the young man, then allows the cabbie to escort him.
We watch as he gingerly gets in the front seat, not the back, like two good friends, going for a drive.