Annie of Washington Heights

She’s always in the neighborhood, out on the street, hunched over, knees jutting, a stern look on her face as if she’s just drawn smoke from a rolled tobacco leaf. She might have been the elder Annie Oakley, lady sharpshooter, at nearly 70. She, the real Annie Oakley, lived long ago and out West and survived a train wreck to shoot another day. I saw an Edison Kinetoscope of her. She must have put on quite a show.

I wouldn’t be surprised if our “Annie”, the one that walks about Washington Heights, knew how to shoot half dollars with a .22 caliber or something equally amazing. I’m a fan without knowing why. Maybe it’s the way she inspires me to ask questions; to speculate. She reminds me that local superstars live among us as everyday people.

“Annie” of Washington Heights is easy to recognize: the scowling face betrays the knowing grin; a black mass of curls sits atop her precarious head. She has breathing difficulties? Maybe. To my mind, she only likes wearing red sweaters.

“Annie” seems like a woman, too, that would live with her kyphosis (the technical term for curvature of the upper spine) and say something like: “To Hell with Doctors! You Think I’m Going to Let Them Near Me?!” I imagine she’s dodged death a couple of times. I imagine she drove the fastest thing rolling in 1957. She wears Etonic shoes.

Other qualities beyond the obvious physical ones – her hunched back and deceptive scowl – are equally striking. Her personality, for example, is frank and superficially abrasive. It’s not unusual to hear her complaining to herself about the price of bread or some other commodity that, correctly (I believe), should only be a third of the price.

There are two food stores in the neighborhood. One is less expensive and bland; the other is more expensive – playing jazzy music and hanging gift baskets from the ceiling during the holidays. I’ve seen her express equal disdain for both and all the people who work there. It’s not a secret, she broadcasts it. “What the HELL am I paying $6.50 for a piece of CHEESE for?” And she’s right.

Maybe you would not believe that she loves clever children and people who smile out loud. Would you believe me if I said one could not read from her face her entire story? That the expression most commonly seen is just a flicker of the tale? I’ve approached her on the street because I have a clever son that she happens to like, and for that compliment to her life she seems to appreciate me as well.

She loves a good story, though I have no proof of it.

On Tuesday last, 7 or 12 people were at the local diner eating their usual breakfasts at dinnertime – typical fare for these parts. One man was having a cheese omelet and rye toast with purple jam. Another lady who looked 40 weeks pregnant was having a waffle and greasy sausages. The only one among us having dinner in the diner was our sweet and curmudgeonly neighbor, “Annie of Washington Heights”. A sort of gentle stare went around to her as she cursed softly about the prices. I imagine the couple next to her hearing her say: “$7.50 for a g-dn hamburger. Unbelievable!”

The proprietress of the diner made no reaction – she’d heard it every second and fourth Tuesday for 6 years, I guess. From behind the soda counter she sent a handsome 20-something-year old lad to her table. He knew “Annie” as well. Before she had a chance to speak, he told her about the soups. “Jeah-sus, that’s it?” was her reaction. “Well give me the tomato soup and a ham sandwich.” she said. “And don’t give me any fries. I’m not paying for the deluxe!” “Yes, of course not.” he said, calling her by her first name. Her REAL first name. He took the menu smoothly and left.

A few minutes passed. The communal response to the absence of her voice allowed us all to relax. Attentions returned back to the plates; back to present company.A great wall surrounds “Annie” as she goes through her purse. When her tomato soup arrives, a loose piece of tin from a stick of gum comes out of her purse and is placed on the saucer. Minutes pass. Her spoon lifts a half-inch above her cup of soup, her face comes down to it; blowing lightly. She sips a little, returning the spoon again to the cup for another taste. Or she rests the spoon the saucer and wipes vertically down over her thin lips.

The last shade of light dips through the diner’s window. A couple in their late-30s tries the door from outside, which has been locked promptly at 8pm tonight. The proprietress waves them off.“Closed.” she mouths silently.

Anyone shaking the handle more than once catches the stares of everyone inside. A second attempt must mean that stranger has happened upon the spot. Only “Annie, with her bowl of soup remains fixed on her own business, the Raison d'être being emptied from her purse.
“Garbage.” or rather “Gah-bidge.” she says.

The diner’s glass door was unlocked from the inside. Click. Two couples left, then a family of four with a little girl and a baby boy in blue exit.

“See you next time. Good luck on the lottery and if you win don’t forget me. Haha.” and the proprietress locks the door once again.

Then…all our attentions snapped to the sound of “Annie” choking.

It wasn’t exactly a sound. It wasn’t even a noise that first instant. It was more the perception of something. Like a large sheet of ice caving under foot and allowing the sound of the damp snow underneath to rise. Everything stopped and then everything started again – “was it an inner-ear event” – and then we all knew when she stood what was happening. But we’re frozen. I’m frozen. Suddenly so straight our “Annie” is up. Then her hand slaps the table. Her hand goes to her throat. A demand for attention.

The proprietress, at a glance, knows what has happened. “She’s choking.” she says to the handsome, young waiter. “Bring this glass of water and hit her on the back. She’s choking.” This second time with only a slight modulation in her voice. The waiter wasn’t so smooth now. He trips over a mop on his way over to “Annie”, spilling half the water on the floor.

Two diners get to their feet: - A five year old who’d dropped his plastic Batman fork and jumped from his seat to retrieve it - A bald man with a paper napkin tucked in his plaid shirt, mouth open and wild-eyed.

The handsome young waiter smacks “Annie” on her back – “patpatpatpatpatpat….patpatpatpat patpatpatpat…” His gesture was the most gentlemanly thing I’d seen in a year: so considerate not to inspire additional urgency but firm enough to move what’s lodged.

And then (and then, and then) she’s immediately out of danger. The sound of air rushes into her mouth, she swallows. A second gulping sound confirming that all our fears are not to be realized. “Thank God” we’re all saying it to ourselves- the 30 through 50-somethings say, internally. The elders say it out loud “Thank, God.” You hear them say it as a chorus: “Thank God”

Our neighborhood remains intact. As a community, we will retain our “personality”. Nothing would change. The collective sigh says “We’re fine.” Amazing.

And one more “amazing”. “Annie of Washington Heights” – our heroine, our friend – got a free meal that night. And what a SMILE she gave. Relieved to be alive and breathing, yes, but FREE MEAL…Well!

“Thank you.” Annie says nodding to both the proprietress and the handsome young waiter – to one and then the other. “I should choke every night.”“Yes, a free meal but don’t get used to it.” the proprietress says. “I’ve got to watch my pennies.”

“I won’t get used to it my dear. God forbid!” Annie chimes sweetly, then adds: “But do me a favor and get me a fresh sandwich. The meat was a little tough on that one.”