A few drops of sun

"Eddie Rotunda."

"Excuse me?"

"That's who you look like. A kid I knew growing up in New Jersey. Eddie Rotunda."

I had parked my self under the awning of Bagel World or some such place on 3rd Avenue and St. Mark's. I'd just gotten out of the 8th Street R station and was walking east toward my acupuncturist. The skies were charcoal gray as I exited, menacing and pregnant; then suddenly the rain came as fast as a yellow taxi. So I ducked under the awning.

A tall, thin, somewhat unkempt but not unattractive man of indeterminate age darted in front of me with what looked like a stroller but turned out to be a shopping cart. His raspy voice shouted, "Scooch. Scooch." I glared at him like I do to anyone who's rude. In New York I glare a lot.

The man turned to me and spoke, something strangers do often to me. I've resigned myself to being a sucker. "You think this rain's gonna last?" he said amiably.

"Looks like a passing shower," I said.

"It's bad enough I'm homeless. I don't need to get wet," he said, his wine-soaked breath wafting my way.

That's when he told me I looked like Eddie Rotunda.

"Sounds like an Italian name to me," I said.

"No, no," the wino said, "it's a good, strong, Eastern European name. Eddie was as pale and redheaded as you."

"Hmm," I said, doubtfully. The rain started hammering down, and the awning wasn't big enough to keep me dry. I ducked into the bagel store.

"Hey!" the wino yelled. "Eddie Rotunda! I was talking to you."

I stood behind a column near the entrance, in full view of the wino. I figured he could see me. If he wanted a handout that badly he'd come after me. I knew if I kept talking to him the pitch would come.

I decided to look for typos on the menu, but it was pretty clean. The smell of brownies tempted me, but I had planned to go to the gym after acupuncture and decided not to pump myself full of sugar.

About five minutes later the rain was starting to thin out. I looked to my left out the window and the wino seemed to be gone, but his shopping cart was still there.

"Eddie Rotunda!" I heard over my right shoulder.

I actually turned around and said, "Yes?"

"Hey, I know you're not Eddie Rotunda, but you do look like him. I'm telling you the truth about Eddie," he said, looking straight at me. "I know you're not the kind of person that can be bullshitted." I felt a little uncomfortable by his directness, but he seemed to sense that I was skeptical about his intentions.

"Eddie used to put marbles down on the ground so we'd trip on them when we walked by." Here's the windup.

"Sounds like a wise guy," I said, looking out the window to see if the rain had let up.

I noticed there was something wrong with his hand. His arm seemed to dangle in front of him, as though it had been paralyzed.

"No, Eddie was just having fun," he said. "He was all right. Hey, listen, I'm trying to get something to eat, and..." I saw see the pitch coming a mile away, and I caught it underhand.

What was it? Something about this guy, the way he looked at me. I could tell he wasn't a bad guy, possibly a vet. I gave him a dollar.

"Really?" he said, a little shakily. "You know, my Medicaid just kicked in..." He leaned in to tell me as though I'd been waiting for this news. I could tell he'd had a drink, probably in the past hour or so since his breath was not stale. I know the difference between beer breath and wine breath and liquor breath. I grew up with an alcoholic father and learned all the tricks and signs. I did my years and years of self-help, breaking my pattern of enabler. Children of alcoholics have a hard time learning how to trust. The sober father started to take me to a baseball game at Shea, and the drunk father stopped in a bar along the way and we never quite made it. Every so often I'll get pulled in, because alcoholics have a way of making everything seem possible.

"Congratulations," I said.

"Now I can get my medication paid for, but I have to wait until this alcohol is out of my system before I can take it." I could almost see another pitch coming, but I wasn't holding my glove out.

The rain was abating, and I had to get going. ""Well, listen, man," I said, "buy yourself something without alcohol so you can take your medicine." I was surprised I still had the parental touch, something children of alcoholics master at an early age. He extended his forearm to me--not his hand but his forearm. There seemed to be something wrong with his hand. I touched my forearm against his. Sometimes a little human contact is all someone really wants.

"Rotunda," he said to me. He seemed to like saying the word. "You know what that means?" I did but decided to let him tell me. "It's a big area way up high in the woods. Rotunda. It's a strong, powerful word." He fixed his eyes on mine. That's when he I realized he was probably younger than me. He was pouty, the way my father used to get, like he was looking for my approval.

I smiled at him, and he looked at me, in a kind of longing way. Maybe I was the only person who engaged him in conversation today. There but for the grace of God, I always think. "Stay well," I said, looking away, and went out onto St. Mark's Place as the rain stopped.

"Bye, Eddie...It was nice talking to you."