The first time I saw him, I thought he was dead.
I was in full flight, at 6 a.m. before coming to a full stop.
When I approached him, we both jumped.
“Oh, you’re okay,” I say, grateful I didn’t have to call 911 to report a body since, dammit it all, talk about being late. Hey, I’m a New Yorker after all, we think in practical terms, plus what’s a body first thing in the morning (I’m joking).
“Buenos dias,” he says, as if he were expecting me.
“And to you too, and if you don’t mind me asking, what are doing in the dark lying on the ground. Are you sick?”
And he says, “No, I do you-ga.”
Turns out this small, squat built like a bullet Latino, all of 20, was merely in corpse pose. That’s when you lie flat on your back, arms at your side, but in his case, still breathing.
“Okay then,” I say, taking off.
He has now become a fixture on my morning run. Sometimes he’s in tree pose, sometimes on his head. It just goes to show, where there’s a will there’s a way.
Turns out he’s a porter at the Ritz Carlton Hotel, and it’s the only time he has to do his…
I’ll tell ya. 🙂