A New Year's Greeting

On New Year's Day, during my morning walk in Prospect Park, I wondered if I should wish the occupant of the Endale Arch a happy new year.  He’s the homeless man from the West Indies about whom I’ve written  before and who sleeps and spends much of his time in the arch, a pedestrian underpass in Prospect Park near the Grand Army Plaza entrance.  How could 2012 be a happy year for this man, I asked myself.  How could he be happy as long as he remains homeless?  Would he consider a new year’s greeting to be a mockery of his situation?

In spite of my misgivings, when I saw him standing inside the arch, I first said “Good morning,” and then “Happy New Year.”  His face became radiant.  “Thank you, sir,” he said, smiling broadly, and then, “ Thank you, sir.”  I had never seen him smile before.  The evident pleasure he took in my simple greeting touched me.

My guess is that most people pass this man without seeing him or if they do see him they avert their eyes.  Probably for most people he is a non-person.  If that’s so, then he must value a greeting that acknowledges him as an individual, a fellow human being.

The nights are getting colder now.  Will he join the 41,000 other New Yorkers who sleep in shelters?  Shelters are said to be dangerous and unpleasant, and if I were in his situation, I'd probably avoid them too.  But hypothermia is a real danger for those who sleep outdoors when the temperature is very low.  I worry about him and then berate myself for worrying, an activity of no use to him or to anyone else.

I wish I could help him, but it occurs to me that he might not want to be helped. He may prefer the solitary life he is living, resenting well-meaning efforts to change his way of life.  Or is this a rationalization to make me feel less bad for being able to do nothing more for him than to wish him a good morning every day and a happy new year once a year?

2010-2012 Anchises-an Old Man's Journal All Rights Reserved

Two Men

Whenever I pass the Meadowport Arch in Prospect Park, I remember its occupant of many years, a man who folded his blankets with military precision, placing them in a corner of the bench on which he slept.  Scrupulously neat in appearance, he usually placed a pile of paper back books on his bench. One day he disappeared and afterwards I regretted my never having said hello to him, in spite of the fact that he seemed encased in his own world and was unlikely to respond.  But last week I found another occupant of his bench inside the arch.  All I could see of him were his legs stretched out along the bench – he was wearing sweatpants - and his feet shod in sneakers.  An opened umbrella shielded his face from public view.

After I passed the Meadowport Arch, I walked on to the nearby Endale Arch, which has a new occupant.  A few weeks ago, I wrote about screwing up my courage to address him.  Now, as I walked towards his arch I wondered if he would be there, since he had been absent for the past few days.  But no, there he was, standing up inside the arch, his arms close to his body – he may have been cold -  his blankets on the ground nearby, and, on a rock outside the arch, an open paperback book.  On sunny days, he would sit there and read.  It was now overcast and raw.  I considered remarking to him that he would have a ring-side seat at the park’s firework display on New Year’s Eve, but I rejected that idea as cruel, in light of his situation.  Instead, I said “good morning,” to which he replied, as he had before, “good morning, sir.”

I tried to imagine myself in the place of these two men, isolated, poor, possibly deranged or addicted, but I found it hard to do so.  If I suddenly discovered myself in their place, it would be like living on another planet, in an alternate world.  How would I solve the problems of finding food, shelter, places to wash?  Where could I keep my few possessions, including my bulky blankets?  How could I keep boredom at bay?  How could I survive if I were cut off from the world of intimate relationships?

Whether these two men are very brave or are simply disconnected from reality, there’s no denying that their lives are hard.  It strikes me now that I rarely see an old man in their position.  If these two men cannot return to the ordinary world, they are not likely to survive into old age.

I wish I knew how to help them.  Saying hello can’t be worth very much.  So my wife and I contribute to organizations for the homeless, in the hope that they will help men like these.


2010-2012 Anchises-an Old Man's Journal  All Rights Reserved