Many years ago I had dinner with a friend in her apartment on the west side. It was early summer and after dinner she walked me out and we walked down the avenue a few blocks enjoying the summer warmth and talking. It was during this walk that we came upon a peculiar sight, even (or especially) for New York: a man smoking a cigar and walking a pot-bellied pig. (This was the early 90s, the rage in pot-bellied pigs was not yet in full swing.) The man was in his thirties, I'd say; stocky; khakis and loafers-no-socks; round tortoise-shell glasses. The jester friend from college who was the life of every party, but could never stay in a relationship, and was actually secretly depressed.
We talked to him for a while. The pig was little and cute and any passing woman on the avenue would say Oh look how sweet how adorable where did you get him can I pet him what does he eat he's so divine who takes care of him what's his name ooh really he's so cute! The man was sort of beaming. He was having a good time. It was a gift, he explained, that he bought for a friend. It was a huge hit at the birthday party! But then, as the guests left, the friend said, "Thanks buddy, but I can't take this pig." And so, the man had a new---temporary, he made clear----pet.
Two months passed. In late August, I had dinner with my friend again. I walked out of her apartment alone, into the smashing heat of August. The avenue was empty----abandoned for the shores and peninsulas and islands of summer----leaving only debris, the stench, the empty bodegas and one man, smoking a cigar and walking a pot-bellied pig.
He had gained weight. The pig had too. He was disheveled (the man), and almost staggering as he walked. There were stains on his clothes. His hair was greasy and stuck down. He emanated fury. Though we were the only lonely souls on the avenue, I did not approach him. I was too afraid of his pain. I was afraid of his deranged, disheveled, disturbed life. I did not want to come close to it. I did not want to become part of it. Look man, there's no room at the inn... I have done the same a million times since. I scurried off into my own convoluted life, and had nothing to do with the scene that was this man and his pig.
I fled. I never saw either man or pig again, but I've wondered about them for almost twenty years.
Above painting: Jamie Wyeth, Portrait of Pig, 1970, Brandywine River Museum. © Jamie Wyeth. (Courtesy of Brandywine River Museum)
