A City

Her name was Dolly and it was ever so appropriate for the lovely lady with the amazing smile.

More than half a century has gone by now since our paths accidentally crossed.

That is why I no longer believe Dolly Kelly would object to having her story finally told.

We met during a year I have ever since remembered with gentle nostalgia.

My coveted employment with a major newspaper chain had barely begun. Beyond loving the new job, I was infatuated with all the glamorous women and charismatic men on the volatile and quite vocal staff.

Possibly even more important to a young, naive and thoughtless 19 year old, I had dates for both major social occasions (Christmas and New Year’s Eve) in New York City. That was an important requisite on any young city dweller’s calendar during those long ago uncluttered days of carefree youth.

Thanks to an intensive year at Katie Gibbs, I was also earning enough money to buy shoes at the legendary Bonwit Teller’s store.

I still remember swinging the festively wrapped and memorable violet shopping bag, walking westward along Central Park, then crossing over Columbus Circle and finally entering the outskirts of Ninth Avenue and Hells Kitchen where our family lived.

Earlier that week I had my hair styled at the now vacant Lord and Taylor store, once overlooking a corner of the famed Avenue called Fifth.

Donald Trump had not yet built his tower, but our beloved Avenue was always at its height of glory during Christmas week.

And I was not yet in love!

The vacuum of any emotion indulged the excess of self absorption then enfolding my small world. Although it would end unexpectedly on the second day of the New Year, I was still unaware of the miracle of love that would embrace me soon forevermore.

Today I sit, aged and alone, far from the comfort of a time now only remembered. I lived in a home once insulated with a loving family and protected by a neighborhood still ridiculed by the cruel name, Hells Kitchen. Both are now long gone and only vaguely mentioned with any accuracy,

The perimeters of our still innocent world were governed by the ever vigilant clergy of the magnificent and still erect. St Paul the Apostle church, on 60th Street and Ninth Avenue.

Robert Moses had not yet destroyed the territory so many of us once knew.

My office was just a few blocks east on 57th Street and 8th avenue. The proximity also gave me the opportunity to take a subway nightly to the Brooklyn Campus of St. John’s College.

I was happy; totally selfish and utterly oblivious to much of the planet beyond my immediate boundaries.

Dolly Kelly was perched Monday through Friday behind the Receptionist’s Desk on the esteemed Flagship Building’s second floor Executive Level. She invariably welcomed me (and others) with a bright smile when either exiting or entering the crowded elevator.

She was glamorous, blonde and vivacious. Dolly brightened everyone’s world, both executives and mail room boys, with her ever present smile.. I envied her clothes, but quietly believed she was a just a bit old. Later I learned she had just turned 40.

Somehow I didn’t miss her normal greeting that memorable Christmas Eve. The office was closing at noon, and little or no business would be conducted before the staff departed. Most of our morning would be spent sharing gifts, coffee, and holiday plans.

At 10 o’clock a friend, Grace Slattery, and I went downstairs for a coffee-break. Before entering the elevator adjacent to Dolly’s desk, I noticed her red leather chair was still vacant. I idly wondered if she had taken a day’s vacation, perhaps gone skiing, or was she too old?

However, I had too many more important things to dwell on that morning (ships and shoes and sealing wax?) and no, I didn’t make any inquiries about Dolly’s whereabouts.

Upon my return to the second floor still clutching a half empty coffee cup, I encountered a solemnity never before known in my sheltered young world.

I was quickly told that Dolly Kelly, the lady with the ever present bright smile and golden chignon, had committed suicide earlier that morning,

I was barely able to stutter, “Why?,”

The answer was tragic with simplicity.

A farewell note stated a beloved cat, her only companion, had died.

Glamorous, blonde and vivacious Dolly Kelly was unable to face another day alone in the city I called beloved.

That day became a Christmas Eve I never been able to forget, and if I had, I should be ashamed.

For a very brief moment in time, a fellow pilgrim named Dolly Kelly entered my world. Her memory should have faded long ago.

I know now that it was written in indelible ink and every December 24th, I am reminded we never travel alone on our individual journey of life.

There are always other pilgrims, seeking and needing a hand of help, while sharing our perilous path.

We merely have to recognize them as they walk by.

Sadly, no one saw Dolly before she wrote her note and said good night,