One

ONE

THE PASSING FACES never failed to interest Michelle Gregory.

A continuous crowd of people walked by her corner every day. Moving inexorably forward, the businessmen and women, workers, students and tourists resembled a human lava-flow in appearance. Most saw nothing but the quickest way to wherever it was they were going. Some of the passing faces wore anger; others appeared worried. The majority, however, held a fixed expression of intense concentration.

Since her move to The Big Apple, Michelle learned quickly that New Yorkers seldom really smile, being completely immersed in their various occupations. At first she wondered, naively, if the amount of stress that they so willingly embraced was worth the angst and apparent insomnia. Three years later, however, Michelle was convinced that the populace not only thrived on stress, but prided themselves in being able to do so.

Sitting quietly on her sidewalk-mat, the young woman shivered. At one time, her coat was thick and warm; lately, it sported patches on the back and shoulders. The biting air hinted strongly if its intention to surrender wholly to winter, and far too early at that. The humid heat of summer in The City seemed very fresh in Michelle’s mind. Autumn chills had just begun, but they ushered in the promise of something far worse than the word “cold” could convey on its own. Freezing rain, icy winds and deep drifts of snow were coming. The winter weather notwithstanding, Michelle knew she was one of the lucky ones... she was not truly homeless. Selling her drawings on the busy, Midtown corner enabled her to purchase food and necessary hygienic supplies.

Two years had come and gone since she was fired and blacklisted by the prominent Johnson & Black Accounting Firm. Despite visiting the unemployment office frequently, no other firm would hire the overly-moral CPA from Denver; her ‘ethical issues’-as her previous supervisor had put it--interfered with the firms’ normal routine of pulling illegal strings which allowed certain large clients to get away with hundreds of thousands of dollars in taxes they rightfully owed. Michelle’s refusal to go along with such tactics had cost her everything: her income, her dignity and even her beloved loft, a place she’d come to call ‘home.’

“And, here I sit,” Michelle thought, grimly.

Memories of her short professional career were still unwelcome. Drawing was the only other marketable talent she possessed and yet she found herself “overly-qualified” for every menial job she applied for. A glut of dishwashers, actors, models and waitresses fervently vied with each other for the few jobs available. Happily, the walking business-folk found Michelle’s drawing style “charming”; they did not object to purchasing her $5 portraits, landmark sketches and caricatures, to the extent that she was able to partially support herself.

Every day, the young woman hid away her pride and trekked the eleven blocks from her hotel to sit, sketch and sell her pictures. The most popular items among the locals were funny caricatures of the city mayor and other political figures; the tourists favored her renderings of the Brooklyn Bridge and Empire State Building. Each sale added to the small pile of folded bills--kept in a shoe box--in her hotel room. Coming back to her hotel room with just $40 was a good day.

At least housing was not a problem, like for so many others who tried to make it in this city. Shortly after Michelle was sacked, a friendly ex-coworker called her with the phone number of a Mr. Jason Chan. Michelle was in a near panic at the time, finding the job market so hostile and she lost no time in calling. Mr. Chan turned out to be the manager of the prestigious Walden-Astor hotel... a man under pressure to shave his budget. In their first meeting, Mr. Chan explained his intention to drop the hotel’s pricey accounting firm and go with a far less expensive one, with just partial audit insurance. He just wanted Michelle to comb through the books and make certain all was in order prior to the transfer. The young CPA dove into the piles of paperwork and software with a sort of ‘desperation’ to prove herself.

The experience proved highly therapeutic. After being fired, Michelle was glad just to be reminded of why she’s gone into accounting in the first place: a talent for navigating tedious mazes of numbers. Her work allowed Mr. Chan to save more than he’d hoped for, and the with very real fear of IRS scrutiny gone, the manager readily agreed to Michelle’s bargain: in exchange for keeping a watch for audit flags she insisted on a free room, with laundry services. Michelle’s apartment lease was up and housing had proved itself the city’s most precious commodity.

Sitting on the street corner Michelle looked over at her display of portraits, wondering"not for the first time--what her parents would have thought about their daughter vending sketches in order to eat. Her mother would have wanted her to move back in; her father would’ve joked about getting the Stanford tuition money back. Tears pricked the corners of Michelle’s eyes at the thought of them. They’d died in a car accident almost three years ago, spinning out of control on a patch of ice in the middle of a winter storm.

The passage of time did little to heal the void they left. Even making a new start, and moving to New York had not chased away the aching loneliness; she had no siblings or near cousins. A few, distant relatives lived in Scotland, but Michelle had never met them. She did have an uncle--her father’s brother--but she’d only seen him a dozen or so times. The man had not responded when Michelle sent news of her parents’ death; he did not come to the funeral. She feared that he was dead, or worse... that he didn’t care. Amid the millions of people-- in the city that never sleeps"the young artist felt completely alone.

A sharp beep brought Michelle out of wistful reminiscence. Glancing down at her watch, she smiled; it was 12:05. Sitting up, she eagerly searched the oncoming lunch crowd for a particular face, one with brilliant blue eyes. Sequestered beneath Michelle’s bed at the hotel, inside her sketch portfolio, sat a portrait... one lovingly crafted. It portrayed a handsome man--approximately thirty years old--with a strong jaw, merry eyes and a downright gorgeous smile. The man’s face reminded Michelle of how one of the Knights of the Round Table must have looked... well, minus the beard, possible fleas and hygienic issues.

While she was drawing the portrait, Michelle was amazed at how the lines seemed to drip right from her pen onto the thick paper, as if they had a mind of their own. Each night, she took the portrait out and allowed herself a moment’s gaze and a wistful smile before putting it away again. But, no dream had inspired the drawing. The man of Michelle’s secret portrait actually existed, and walked by her little corner every day, at exactly 12:06. Even on weekends.

His routine appeared to be everything to him. It was the thing about him that first caught Michelle’s notice... he was never late. She assumed his took pride in being exactly punctual, not mention well-dressed. Each day man showed up in tailored suits, even in the heat of summer; a variety of thick, wool overcoats encased the man in the colder months. Dark blond hair, not overly groomed, set off his cobalt eyes. He appeared right around six-foot tall--by Michelle’s reckoning--though it was hard to accurately guess from the ground.

In spite of the stranger’s good looks, Michelle did not entertain romantic thoughts about him. His expression never varies, cool and businesslike, as if he were devoid of emotion. Michelle suspected that a hit of arrogance hovered somewhere behind his appearance of calm self-confidence, but she could not be sure. The man simply looked unreadable. As much as Michelle liked drawing faces, she did not want to put his on paper. At least... not until the day she saw him smile.

A few months prior, a small child had accidentally bumped into the 12:06 man, interrupting his stride. Michelle watched as the scene unfolded, not a dozen feet from her corner. Brows gathered, the stopped and man frowned down at the little urchin. From out of nowhere, a smile spread slowly over his face; his eyes shone like sapphires. Michelle stared at him. The stone mask of the no-nonsense businessman seemed to crack and a ray of light shone through from some other realm, revealing a glimpse of a soul. It was his smile that had inspired her portrait. From there, she began to wonder about him. His expression began to seem less cold, and more professional than aloof.

Now, as she searched for his face in the crowds Michelle reminded herself how futile it was to look for him. He’d never once glanced in her direction. Once, in a mad moment of bravado she had actually toyed with the idea of falling into step with him and saying... something. Courage failed her. Later, she’d laughed at her own foolishness. What would she say? What could she say?

“Hi... I’m vending sketches down here in the grime of the street. I’ve noted your passing each day at the same time. Want to get some coffee with my wad of unhygienic dollar bills?”

Michelle inwardly groaned at the thought. She imagined he would look at her askance, lift an eyebrow or simply walk away, without a word. Certainly her face and clothes were clean but her bedraggled, worn attire was just one step above ‘waif’--especially compared to his appearance--not to mention she was unemployed, and had been some while. The very idea was unthinkable. Still, something compelled her to look for him each day... and to wonder.

12:06. The face she sought appeared. Walking swiftly towards her, the blue-eyed man talked on a cell-phone; his head tilted a little to one side, pinning the phone between his shoulder and chin as he fiddled with the clasp on his briefcase. Sitting up straight, Michelle leaned forward as far as she dared in order to hear his voice. Bits of conversation floated toward her through the other sounds of the street and pedestrian footfalls. He had a pleasant voice, she decided; masculine but with a clear, British accent... one somewhat muted, perhaps by years of living in the US. He passed by quickly and was soon lost in the moving crowd of walking suits, heading to wherever it was he went.

Michelle let out a long breath, heavy with unspoken disappointment. For the few seconds she saw the 12:06 man each day, she felt light. In his wake, however, her emotions shifted to the more downcast side of the scale, accompanied by a large helping of self-pity. She imagined herself looking like the Little Match Girl… soot-ridden and sunken-eyed, lighting matches to keep herself warm.

“Ah, well,” she whispered. “Until tomorrow...”

After two years of selling her drawings on the streets of Manhattan, Michelle had learned to embrace optimism. The alternative to this was depression; she saw daily examples of this in the lined faces of lost souls who shrouded themselves in alcoholism and misery. The sight of those at rock-bottom kept Michelle’s spirits up. Even in her situation, there was a lot for her to be thankful for.

A middle-aged man, in a dark suit, passed b and glanced at one of the political cartoons on Michelle’s display. He laughed and dug in his pocket for money. Taking the picture down, the young artist fetched a roll of brown paper from her bag, tore off a piece and wrapped the drawing with a practiced hand. Swiftly she looped a length of cheap twine around the package before handing it over. As the buyer hurried away, Michelle smoothed and folded the precious bills, discreetly stowing them away in the top of her sock.

It was a fair day for sales; she sketched five drawings and sold four. As the sunlight waned toward twilight, however, the young artist stood and folded her cardboard display with habitually honed movements. Adjusting her coat, Michelle picked up the little rug, rolled it and pulled down the brim of her hat. Perhaps she’d sell more"if she stayed--but Michelle didn’t feel safe outside, alone, after dark. The near-constant presence of people in this city was a little deceptive, giving one a false sense of security and freedom.

“Don’t be out alone at night,” her father warned her, all through school... even during university. “Yeah, you can live a little after dark... but you can die a whole lot easier.” Her mother would often chime in after him, with concise statistical data backing up her husband’s point.

“Don’t make me live through seeing you among those numbers, honey,” her mother would say. The irony of their own death enlarging a different set of statistics did not bring Michelle any comfort, but it did remind her that she was ultimately responsible for her own safety, and it was not something she took lightly. Squinting at the dying rays of the setting sun, Michelle felt glad that her route to the hotel lay in a relatively well-patrolled area of town.

Stepping into the narrow river of moving people on the sidewalk, the young artist joined them for the walk home, eleven blocks of familiar sights, smells and sounds. The sharp tang of Chinese food and hot-pastrami filled the air; hot dog stands and vendors selling roasted chestnuts gathered at the street corners. Working her way toward a fruit stand, Michelle exchanged a nod with the ancient Vietnamese woman, sitting behind the rows of apples. The woman immediately picked up two, rosy-colored pieces of fruit and put them in a small sack; she knew Michelle by sight. Handing over the money in a fluid motion, Michelle took her fruit with a smile. Down the block, there was a take-out window boasting better-than-average Szechuan cuisine. With today’s sales, Michelle figured, she could buy fried ginger noodles, steaming vegetables with tender beef and a small order of egg-rolls. Behind the window, the veteran cooks had her order ready in minutes. The containers of food felt heavy in their thin plastic sacks, their aroma sublime. Michelle hastened her step toward home.

The alley running behind the Walden-Astor hotel teemed with people at nearly all times of the day and night: kitchen assistants carrying bins of vegetables and fruit, bakery vans, carpet cleaners, linen delivery trucks and the constant presence of the security guards. Michelle smiled as she spotted Samuel, a fatherly member of the guard staff she had come to know fairly well. Mr. Chan had introduced them and from almost day one, the older man tended to look on the young guest as his responsibility.

“Miss Michelle,” he said, tipping his cap. Michelle smiled at him.

“Sir Samuel... you are valiance, incarnate,” she replied, shifting her packages in order to shake his hand. Laugh lines deepened around the man’s eyes as he returned her smile.

“I see y’ have Chinese tonight,” he commented, walking with Michelle to one of the back entrances; swiping his card, he opened the door for her. “Mabel was getting worried y’ weren’t eatin’ enough.”

Michelle chuckled. She’d only met Samuel’s wife a few times, but was inclined to stand a bit straighter when the stout, matronly woman was around. Soon, her severe facade melted and she’d fussed over Michelle like a mother hen. After their first meeting, Mabel had her husband bring by a care-basket, with canned food, but Michelle refused it; she had no kitchen to bake or cook and nowhere to store cans. She did appreciate the thought and wrote a note saying so, sending it back--via Samuel-- along with a single rose (cut discreetly from the hotel’s garden courtyard). From then on, Mabel’s deliveries consisted of cookies with the occasional fresh loaf of bread.

“I have fruit, as well,” Michelle said, holding up the paper bag of apples. “She needn’t worry. My parents taught me how to take care of myself.” Stepping through the door, she turned back to Samuel. “Please tell her how I adored her raisin bread last week. It was simply delicious.”

Samuel nodded. His face took on a wistful expression.

“I know,” he said, sadly. “She wouldn’t let me eat any of it. Says it’s bad for my diet.” He patted his belly affectionately. “I may have been forced to commandeer a few slices of yours, though,” he added, his eyes twinkling. Michelle nodded goodbye to the man, smiling all the way down the service hall.

The air grew in humidity and warmth as she neared the kitchens. Walking forward in the dimly-lit hallway, faint scents of rosemary and garlic filled Michelle’s nostrils. Her stomach growled. Other scents hung in the background; cream"she guessed--reducing in a pan; shallots simmering in sherry; someone within was shaving truffles. Oh, she remembered a few, good dinners in this city... back when she could just barely afford to eat at a nice restaurant, once in a while.

A half-smile formed on her face at the familiar sound of the sous-chef arguing with the saucier. A loud, metallic clang sounded out and the head chef began screaming in French. At least, she assumed it was French. At that moment, Michelle felt grateful for only knowing English, though she figured most people would guess the gist of what was being said. Stepping aside, she allowed two kitchen assistants to dart by her, trying to escape the chef’s wrath. Ducking into a stairwell Michelle climbed quickly a flight of stairs to the first floor.

The hotel’s cheapest rooms were tiny, but they did not lack in basic comfort. Her room looked out over the top of a stone-veneered maintenance shed that sat in an unused corner of the hotel’s garden courtyard. As far as Michelle knew, she was the only permanent resident on the first floor. She rarely saw anyone but the cleaning crews. The tiny rooms were unpopular with guests, unless all the others were full.

Using her key card, Michelle let herself into room 103. She listened for the door to close behind her with that secure ‘click’ before letting out a sigh of relief. Her eye rested on familiar things: the gray plush carpet, the bed with its deep-red linens, potted flowers growing by the open window, the diminutive antique table and the old-fashioned walnut armoire. It felt good to be home.

Closing her small window against the night, Michelle drew the curtain and began her evening ritual: the battered boots were removed, wiped down and placed carefully placed in the bottom of the armoire; her coat was hung up and the other clothing bundled into the laundry basket. Michelle’s tiny bathroom boasted a toilet, pedestal sink and a slender shower, one constructed long before ADA regulations were dreamed up. The hotel’s boiler system"with its never-ending hot water"however, made the narrow proportions of the room fade from memory almost instantly. At the end of the day, it felt like pure bliss to Michelle just to stand under the cascading heat, letting the water wash the grime and odors of the city from her skin.

Dressed and clean, Michelle put her wet hair back in a ponytail and picked up her laundry basket & supplies. The second floor had a converted closet at the end of it, with a washer and dryer tucked inside, and covered up by folding wooden doors. Checking the inside for clothes Michelle measured in a cup of generic baking soda and a few squirts of cheap dish soap; she set her wash going and walked back to her room, reveling in the quiet.

“If I didn’t have to go outside to make money,” she thought, “I’d gladly make this my hermitage.”

The idea rather appealed. Here, at least, there resided a measure of secluded comfort, with no pressing crowds or throngs of strangers. A calm feeling permeated this hallway, constant and reassuring. But, leave it again tomorrow she would, and the entire day would repeat. Oscar and Mabel represented her entire social circle. To Michelle, the only other constant in this city was the daily re-appearance of the 12:06 man.

Back in her room, she turned on a miniature CD player adorning the desk by her bed. It was one of the few things she hadn’t had to sell. The flat-screen TV had succumbed to the grasp of a pawn shop long ago, as well as her camera, most of her business clothes and her collection of shoes, but music she refused to be parted from. Outdated it might be, but it was a gift from her favorite art teacher... and it simply refused to die.

Opening a case of music discs, Michelle selected one and slid it into the waiting slot. Clicks and whirs abounded in the well-loved machine... and then an impressive moment of silence. Michelle closed her eyes, imagining the CD player as an aging symphony conductor"a maestro"fully aware that he commanded the attention of all in the audience. In front of him the musicians breathlessly waited, their eyes riveted onto his wand. The maestro stood motionless, letting the dramatic pause fully develop before the movement of his hands signaled the beginning of his feast for the ears.

The first notes of Chopin’s Piano Concerto #2 filled the air. Opening her eyes, Michelle sat on the floor by her bed; reaching underneath, she pulled out a leather portfolio. As the music undulated between melancholy notes and rousing crashes, she sifted through the drawings in her portfolio, ending at the portrait of the 12:06 man. Michelle held the drawing up in her fingertips, as if it were a fragile thing. It did look awfully like him, she mused; probably her best work. Somehow she’d managed to capture that radiant smile from nothing but memory. Smiling back at the picture, she slid it once again into the portfolio, fastening up the nickel buckles.

Michelle held the briefcase a moment, inhaling the faint smell of leather. A gift from her father on graduation day, she’d treasured it since as well as the charcoal pencils and fine pens from her mother; they knew she’d kept her passion for art amid the myriad accounting classes and volumes of tax law. Michelle’s eyes misted over again and she put the portfolio away.

Looking at the hotel writing desk, she smiled at the collection of pictures set up there: a photo of her parents on their wedding day, a picture of them smiling over her as a baby; a snapshot of her as a child standing by her Uncle Oscar, almost lost in the huge sombrero he had brought from Mexico. Standing up, Michelle turned the music down and glanced at the clock; the laundry would not be ready to switch for another twenty minutes. Looking around, she wished she had a teapot, or some kind of kettle. She missed being able to make tea whenever she wanted. She missed a lot of things, but tea seemed the most affordable. Perhaps, she thought, she would luck out and find a used electric kettle at the thrift store.

Her gaze drifted to the unopened containers of Szechuan on her desk, sitting alone in the plastic bag. With a smile she grasped the food and sat down on the floor again. The spicy aroma dispelled her lingering woes as the music picked up tempo. The egg rolls proved especially good. As she ate, Michelle gladly abandoned the realms of Self-pity and Want.

Tossing the empty food containers down the hallway garbage chute, Michelle caught a glimpse of movement; a family stood outside a room down the hall. A small boy and his parents smiled at each other, talking excitedly as they maneuvered their bags through their room door. They looked happy. The solitary observer felt lighthearted just looking at them until the moment their door shut. The hallway looked barren once more. Michelle retreated into her room. Loneliness had been her only companion for the last four years, but she still resented its presence.

Lying in her bed--some hours later--Michelle listened to the slow jangling of a janitor’s cart as it passed her door. In the distance, an ambulance siren rang out over the never-ending noise of moving cars outside.

“I am lonely,” she whispered into the dark. So acute was the notion, it almost felt painful. Michelle thought briefly of the 12:06 man, of his cerulean eyes and brilliant smile. “...and, I’m a coward,” she admitted, allowing herself a rueful smile. There had to be a way to signal the blue-eyed man she so admired, to let him know she existed; a subtle way, she decided, one that did not require heroics. Michelle thought that she would give almost anything to see him smile at her.

Peering over the edge of her bed, Michelle could just make out the portfolio. Perhaps it was time to let her portrait see the light of day.

“It won’t sell,” she murmured. No, it wouldn’t... but maybe, just perhaps, the 12:06 man would see it. What would happen then, Michelle wondered. Lying back on her pillow, the young artist closed her eyes as Sleep danced its slow steps around her room.