Walking away from the rising sun beaming down 29th Street, I glanced to where my eyesight is best—far away. On a hillside across the Hudson River, I noticed, clear as crystal, the huge stone monastery located just blocks away from my apartment in Union City, NJ.
It was another Friday morning on the job as a messenger. I was on my way to 11th Avenue and 44th Street. It is a long walk, especially on cold mornings when the sun is at my back. I carried two heavy leather bags stuffed with union member paychecks. They hardly fit inside my black backpack.
Public transportation is available if I shell out the $2.50, but waiting for a subway and a bus would take more than an hour and I get paid just $1.50 for the single delivery. The silence along the Westside highway, free from pedestrians chatting on their phones, gives me time to say prayers if I wish, or simply look off into the distance and wonder why those men spent so much time praying and if it really did any good.
I prefer to walk in New York as a messenger, anyway. I don’t like others rubbing up against me on mass transit. These solitary walks bring the world into perspective and still my mind in bliss. I understand how it was Jesus sensed a bleeding woman touch his garment. Ever since working as a messenger, I have developed what I believe is sight from what others call a Third Eye, but what I see as simply heaven. When I walk I see what I would never have noticed underground. When I spotted the monastery, I caught a chill, as if some ancient prayer given by some chanting monk found its way across the Hudson nearly a century later.
I pass Saint Patrick’s Cathedral every other Tuesday morning when I deliver to Donald Trump’s business on 56th Street. Never to I “feel” anything there. Often I choose to spit on the sidewalk just to prove I’m still human and not yet a saint, delivering these fucking envelopes for mere pennies!
The monastery, named in honor of the Archangel, Michael, stood empty in the distance, I felt something, like the sun had somehow warmed my back through the heavy backpack.
It was then I remembered I stood on the stone steps of the church the day my unemployment benefits had ended and I asked that if the soul of any of the monks were still around to help me.
And he did. I felt that and saw it through my third eye on Friday.