Ezekiel Edwards

The Man Who Couldn’t Smile

As I left the bodega on 161st Street last week, lunch in hand, I ran into a former client and his friend. His friend had some questions for me, so he accompanied me a few blocks back to my office.
"I want to sue the hospital," he said.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because when I was there last month for chest pains, they gave me some injection, and now I can't smile."
"You can't what?"
"Smile. I can't smile. I try, but can't do it. See, watch ..."
We turned and faced each other as he attempted to form a smile. His eyes narrowed slightly, his upper cheeks moved almost imperceptibly, but his lips remained horizontal, elongating slightly, but with no upward turn at either end. If that was the best he could do, he was right: he couldn't smile.

We waded through the desperate din of the methadone clinic to our right, continuing past an empty, brick-filled lot that, until recently, had been a parking garage. Beyond the cement-cracked yard sat a former supermarket, now partially torn down, its shredded "Grand Opening" sign still visible. Across from the lifeless rubble rose a cluster of bleak concrete apartment buildings, which looked like an unfortunate architectural marriage between Soviet bloc and American prison.

We passed a heroin addict going through withdrawal followed by an overwhelmed mother cursing at her children, none older than six. As we walked, our feet avoiding the ever-present litter of the sidewalk, the man said to me, "I may not be able to smile, but I sure as hell can cry."

We neared the front door to my office, a former banquet hall that, once upon a time, was a popular hangout for Joe Dimaggio, the great centerfielder for the New York Yankees. I tried to imagine the restaurant back then, the music being played, how these Bronx streets appeared 60 years ago, but the cacophony of a nearby police siren and the thunderous bass of a hip-hop song from a passing car yanked me back to the present.

"What you're talking about is a civil suit against the hospital," I said to the man. "I only do criminal defense, but we have civil lawyers in our office who could talk to you more and point you in the right direction. Here's my number. Give me a call later this week."

As I handed him my business card and we shook hands beneath the relentless summer sun, I saw his eyes squint, his cheeks bunch up a little, but his stubborn lips refused to bend.
"Good luck, and I hope you get your smile back."
"Me too," he said, shaking his head and sighing. "Because heaven knows that I don't want to go through the rest of my life without smiling."

As I entered my office, he continued walking down the street, careful to avoid the broken glass from a shattered car window scattered across the asphalt.

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Posted at 8:25 AM, Aug 01, 2006 in
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