“He did it for sure.” “What’s happening. I don’t understand?” “What did she say?” “Hello? How ya doing? I’m in the movies. Where are you?” “No, that’s his wife, the other woman is his mistress. No, not the blonde, the brunette, the brunette.” I have admittedly said, or wanted to say, “shhhh,” while watching a movie in a theatre.

MOMA (The Museum of Modern Art in New York) has an outstanding film selection with daily showings. As a member you can see an endless selection of films for free. (There are some dedicated regulars, who claim a particular seat as their own, despite the open seating policy. I have been directly confronted and acquiesced.)

MOMA was showing a series of short, early silent films. Often they are accompanied with a musical soundtrack, recorded or live, but this particular program had neither. The films were silent, silent films.

The theatre was quiet. The films varied in theme.  One amusing film elicited appropriate laughter.

I was startled to hear “SHHHH,” from a viewer in the audience.

“Your passport please.” I was checking into a small hotel in Pushkar, India after traveling on a bus from Udaipur, 300 kms away. It had been a long, dusty, bumpy ride. I began looking through my bag, now painstakingly. My passport wasn’t there.

I then remembered using it to change some money at a bank, a day or two before I left Udaipur,  and relayed this to the hotel employee. The return trip was not one I looked forward to.

A Canadian man, whom I had just met, overheard my conversation and said, “I’m going to Udaipur tomorrow to buy some silver, then coming back here the following day. I can pick up your passport.” “Thanks, that would be great, but would they give my passport to you, a stranger?”  Fortunately I had a photocopy of my passport. I wrote a letter on the back, with the Canadian’s name and my signature hoping that this would be enough. It was worth a try.

Two days later, my passport was back in my hands. ” How did it go? Did they give you a hard time? Was my note sufficient? ” I asked. The Canadian explained, ” I got to the bank and told them that you’d left your passport. I was guided to one of the clerks who opened a drawer. Inside there were at least thirty passports strewn about. The clerk just looked at me and said, “Here, take hers.”

“Hey Helen, how are your kids?”  “Yeah, they’re okay.”  “Steve, still dancing?” ” I just got written up in the New York Times. I’m in a video dancing with Bow Wow. You can see me giving him a hug.” ” Ooooh, that’s cool.” said a heavy-set woman in the front seat of the eight-seater taxi. The others had given her the front to ease the pain in her back. She quickly found it on her phone. I was sitting in the rear, somewhat uneasy as the driver looked at the video, rather than keeping his eyes on the road. No one else seemed to care as we watched Steve, sixty-seven, dancing: arms flailing, feet hopping, repetitive movements to what I imagine was a musical score . The passengers were all regulars except for me.

Steve was dropped off first at the Pet Memorial Park at Bideawee to pay his respects. Before leaving the car he said, “Animals make better friends than most people.” “That’s for sure.” came a response.

The conversation switched to the homeless. “Yeah they’re just scamming,” someone said. “We’re all that close to being homeless ourselves,” said the woman holding the phone.  The driver said, “I’ve seen them at the train station asking for money to buy a ticket, then going over to the gas station to buy beer.” “Well that’s different.” “Yeah they buy drugs too.” “They’re buying heroin. They’re cracking down on the doctors giving meds, so people are now buying heroin instead.”

A young man who had spoken little until then said, ” I lost six friends to heroin this year. Football players, jocks. It’s affecting everyone,   everyone.” For the first time since I had gotten in the taxi, no one said a word.