I saw Chuck Schumer (U.S. Senator for New York) on Madison Avenue last week. With the terrorists in our midst I decided it would be imprudent to snap a picture of this public figure, in a public space, being interviewed by a local TV station for public broadcast. I had places to go and things to do that did not include detention in a police barracks, at the Tombs, on the Barge, submitted to scrutinies of the Senator’s wartime security detail. In the instant of contemplation I travelled from the gesture of getting a picture of the Senator to solitary confinement on The Barge, shitting in a bucket as the terror patrol broke me down with spiteful questions about my childhood shoplifting phase, and what good those Topps football cards I stole from the Majik Market in 1977 did for me now, now that I’d escalated my crimes to thieving the likeness of our beloved Chuck Schumer.

I don’t know what Chuck is like in private or at politic but his public manner is kindly and ingratiating. In the natural flow of pedestrian traffic I followed the Senator for half a block as he made his way from the site of the interview to his warm and waiting chauffered limousine. I noticed that he smiled and said hello to every single person he saw, reaching out to shake their hands even as some appeared confused by the salutations of this well-dressed stranger approaching them with such familiarity and ease.

I should do that. I should walk north on Madison Avenue, smiling, reaching out to every single human being in order of proximity, shaking hands and saying hello. “Hi, good to see you,” just like Chuck said. I shall stand at that corner of Madison Avenue and 52nd Street and just talk. “Hello, it’s a beautiful day. I’ve been standing here for 20 minutes. Sir, where are you going that our paths would cross at this spot?”

I once met a woman that way. She was (she said) 103 years old and she held court on a quiet side street in Queens, standing on the sidewalk waiting for people to pass so she could talk to them. Mostly lucid but still floating in mercurial vapors of age I stood for many minutes, hearing but unable to listen, a useless board was I, walking off as someone else approached and she continued her sermon.

She was, simply, Talking.

I have had thoughts of Talking since moving to New York. In 1991 I proposed to a friend that we board separate cars of the 1 train at 72nd Street in Manhattan and start Talking, I in my radio voice and he in his public speaking voice, about our days. “Hello, everybody, my name is Mark and I am going to be your Talker for this subway ride. I woke up at about 8:30 this morning and went to the diner for some eggs and sausage. I walked around the block a couple of times before coming here to speak. I have little to say and nothing to ask of you but I am just going to continue Talking here today…” Yes, that would be my day, Talking about nothing, about things, and in my imagineering I expected to eventually say *something* of substance, something of intellectual merit, arriving at a crystal of insight via the spirit of the alleged 1,000 monkeys with pens and papers eventually re-creating the works of Shakespeare, those monkeys that fill the metaphorical cages of my mind but are yet to find a writing utensil.