a new york story
Sun 10.11.20
A New York Story
Temperatures are high 50 to low 60 degrees, but the wind is below freezing. She rides back and forth in her wheelchair. Boyfriend's not here yet. A laid back guy. He came home yesterday from his day's work with a Colt 45 beer and three Chinese egg rolls which he polished up in good form, read for a bit, then hit the sack and was dead to the world in half a minute. A good looking, big man who likes to dress sharply.
He gets here 45 minutes later and she lays in to him, blah, blah, blah. He screams back, arms up in the air. I would love to know what they are saying, and I could easily by opening a window. But that's not fair.
This opens a scenario in which I see myself talking to Alice -- That was a dumbass thing to do. Now you'll have to sleep alone on this miserable, cold night. She paces back and forth in her wheelchair. It occurs to me that maybe she is to be admired for her break-up with the guy. Maybe, he was so outrageous she chose go it alone. But he is back a half hour later and all is forgotten. About these two: The man is outgoing, spirited, attractive. She is dumpy, toothless, ravaged, grey haired, limps badly, needs a wheelchair, is a self-pitying whiner, a constant fretter. I don't know if she'll be able to survive the winter. I have no doubts about him. But this is speculation on my part, it may be that Alice is the real survivor. How else would she get such a big strapping guy to stand by her?
I, in essence live with two homeless people. Their chosen spot faces my windows, of which I have three. I have a one room studio with curtainless windows; one can easily see in my apartment. They are a party to my life too, know my habits as well as I know theirs. Living next to homeless people, you begin to wonder about survival. Two men came last night at different times to sit by the sleeping, or trying to sleep, couple. Apparently, they had not found a place to bed down and so came like vultures, to sit next to those who had. Life presents us with challenges which we must face or die. The challenge, if we choose to meet it, is what transforms us.
I went to see a film about homeless people who lived many years underground in the tunnels of the Metro North Railway System, a true horror of a life among rats and the detritus of modern city waste. People build shelters from plywood, chicken wire. It is pitch black at all times, but these folks have found a way to hook into the cities' wiring system and have lights in their hovels. Water is gotten in that same manner, by opening an overhead valve, no flush toilets means having to lug shit out of your area. Some people have dogs. It is a constant battle between humans and rats to maintain ground. A lot of crack addicts, a sixteen year old kid from Ohio. Father was an addict and a drunk who beat him up all the time and Mom sided with Dad. He's a big guy, good looking, and he is strong and smart. I am amazed at how this kid has made a home for himself underground with dogs, drug-free.
Most of the people depicted in the film have major life situations which overwhelm their ability to take care of themselves. One woman told a story about being in a crack stupor unable to move, helpless to prevent an unfolding scene where she saw her two daughters burn to death in a fire. She has made her life and it is truly miserable. She wishes she had died in the fire.
In a city where a lot of people spend half of their monthly salary and more on housing, homelessness is a New Yorker's worst nightmare. There are lots of stories about former middle class people living on the street. Here's what's happening on my block: There is a spot across from me that, for whatever logistic consideration, is a much sought after place to hang out and bed down for the night. They are parked in front of a one story building which contained a bakery in the past, but is now closed. A loading door front with no traffic, against the building wall is a fence, a perfect sleeping corner.
This spot is coveted by a tag team of destitutes. The first guy I knew eventually made his way in the world. He still comes to visit, sits at his old spot, has a drink, reads the paper, and he's off. Little funky black guy with a blue bike, sleeps here occasionally. Then there is Our Mistress of the Homeless, Alice, the woman who has staked her claim to the spot. I can't stand this repulsive pig but somehow developed an interest in her. In her fifties and badly worn, she limps, cannot walk any distance, has a wheel chair. Toothless, pudgy, jeans, pullover, skirt. She spends hours combing her hair and tying it up at the top of her head, then digging at the back, like there is something festering. I've seen her go at it for two straight hours, combing her hair, putting it up, digging at the back of her head, messing her do, then starting over.
She works the southwest corner of 87th and 2nd Avenue, begging for money in the most pathetic way -- Oh please, won't you help me! Please, won't you help me! she whines in the most desperate way. She is at our mercy. I do not like this whiny, decrepit woman who's life unfolds in front of me every day and night. She is a pack rat, filthy, thrash all around her, doesn't pick up after herself.
Temperatures dropped precipitously at the beginning of last week, winter jackets and gloves on the street. That night, my neighbor Alice (I call her Alice, as in Alice in Wonderland,) is bedded down on top of a cardboard floor on which a mattress is centered wherein lies Alice with all her clothes on hidden underneath a pile of blankets. A man has entered her life recently. He sleeps with her. This is not about sex, they are so fucking cold they merely hunker in the center of that bed, partaking of each other's body heat.
I am in the kitchen cleaning up when I hear noise on the street. Sounds bellowing from the loudspeaker of a cop car, two officers clearly seen from the interior light in the vehicle. They have focused a beam of light on the bed from their roof panel. The old toothless woman who can barely walk comes out of her cocoon, full spotlight on her, and limps towards her wheelchair folding her blankets as she moves along and depositing them in the seat. The man gets up, has to relieve himself in front of the tree.
I hate these fucking nazi cops who terrorize homeless people. I am looking directly at them; they see me and shut their interior light. Never once do they step out of their warm car. Only the focused beam of light and the barking speaker voice orders the homeless about, and it doesn't stop until the couple has picked up every scrap, and packed up their belongings. I watch Alice and her buddy walk off, she, limping along pushing the bedding-laden wheelchair, the man carrying the rest of their possessions into the late night.
She reclaims her spot from the bike guy two days later and is back at her post. She spends freezing cold nights, then sits in her wheelchair most of the day in the sunlight reading a paperback marshalling her energy to endure the cold. She was busted again the other night. Two cops in a car. They get out and walk over to wake the couple. They all hang around and talk for a while. One cop walks over to the deli and buys them coffee. He even throws in a box of cigarettes. Alice and her friend depart puffing away, between sips of coffee, as they head towards the East River. The weather turned unseasonably warm again the past few days and Alice and her man quickly made their way back amongst us.
The name of the film about the underground NYC homeless is "Dark Days", shot in black and white, interpersing scenes of the dark underground, then the bustling or quiescent above-ground city where these homeless people make their living collecting cans, scavenging for goods and food. Surprisingly, the documentary ends on a upbeat note.
