My Homeless Old Man (Diary)

Saturday night at the downtown end of the 96th Street subway platform, I watch a man of about sixty-five measure his steps down the stairs into the station. He walks carefully, carrying a heavy plastic bag in his left hand and a loaded blue duffel in his right. His head hangs down and he shuffles like other prematurely elderly people I've seen. Those who are tired. Or just alone. My train is taking a long time to come, giving me time to notice the stain on his filthy khakis. His inability to find a bathroom in time.

Slugging his way along, he has nearly descended the stairs when an express train trundles into the station. As it nears a stop, the old man steps away from the bottom of the stairs with importance.

In a moment he is frozen in the middle of a swath of frenetic passengers who are on their way past him and up the stairs, going this way and that, a mad stream of New Yorkers on their way to this place or that important place.

I think he may be run over, but he confronts the torrent, slowly putting down his plastic bag, hooking his left thumb under his chin. He lifts his head to face the crowd.

I am sickened. He has no control over his neck muscles. Only his hand to support his head that on its own rests on his chest. He greets his audience with a little smile, murmuring. I cannot hear. I presume he is requesting money, or food, or some other assistance of a passerby or another who might be willing to help.

I've been victim to the cunningness of other beggars. On this round, however, my little old man receives hardly more than a glance as reward for his considerable effort. He carefully lowers his head again with his hand and starts to pick up his bag when a second train bangs into the station.

Fastening his left thumb under his chin again, he lifts his head and mutters again his requests, incredibly with renewed hope on his face. He smiles his skimpy smile to encourage the gaggle of disembarking passengers.

He is a bit closer to me now, and having the same bad luck with riders. I'm conflicted as I reach for my wallet and find only a ten dollar bill and two twenties. He has not seen me yet and I wonder as my local train approaches whether I should jag off and forget about him entirely. Or if I should drop him a twenty and wish him well.

I am embarrassed as I get on the local train with my withering fifty dollars still intact. My train lurches forward . I am sick as he pales out of sight. My tears are as much for me as they are for him. For the pig of a person I have become to let an old man go hungry in his urine stained corduroys.

He with his hand holding up his head and grinning just a little to inquire whether someone might spare a dime.

I go home to worry whether I should go out for dinner or order in.