Today, late night/ early morning riding the 1, my peaceful ride and the bubbly Italian chatter next to me was cut by the announcement of a panhandler. It's nothing new here, but this time the whole train went silent as this man gargled his words. I couldn't tell if he was drunk, brain damaged, or if his vocal chords were just shot after years of abuse, alcohol, drugs, and cold weather. I assumed a mix of all three. I strained my ears to hear him howl about his situation. "I desperately need a job," I made out. "If anyone can, please, HELP ME!"
But the help me was a howl from his soul. It was a shriek that began as air from lungs pinched by cracked rib bones, escaping through a broken throat. It was more desperate than the howl of Ginsberg. It was like the help me of the lost little white girls in thriller movies. It was the help me of someone dying, drowning in a puddle of his insides. It was the epitome of desperation, and after it I listened as the man moaned his way through "Ain't too Proud to Beg" , horribly too fitting, surprised that he got as far as he did. I bet he came from a time where that was his favorite song to hear on the radio and to sing with his friends. I bet he's had that memorized since he was my age.
And what did I do? I stuffed my nose in my book of essays, I ignored him just as this city and these people have taught me too. No--
of course you cannot listen to every crying bum and empty your pockets for everyone with a cup. But do you ever wonder where he came from? What he was like when he was a child? If his family knows where is now? The amount of dehumanization and abandonment of pride and dignity it takes to do that every day? Did he ever have any? When did he realize he lost it? What were his dreams as a child, what neighborhood did he grow up in, what's his mother's name, what's his name, why is he here, on this train, drowning in phlegm and whiskey? How did he get here?
It's far much easier to turn pages than it is to think about these questions.
I got onto the 2 and the man slumped over in the seat across from me stank so bad of urine that at the next stop I ran to the next car. And on this train was another man, coughing and clutching a McDonald's bag, his finger circling a barbecue saucepacket, his mouth creating a contorted sad smile, and he laughed in whimpers between coughs.
And they're always black, dark black. A black deeper than the keys on my macbook. Black like the caked frying pan your mother use to cook with. As black as the dirt they're covered in, the filth that is their existence.
As I transfered at Times Square I walked past advertisements and pictures and sparkly images. The reflections of our consumerist culture that feasts, and feeds, and ingests.
We love our comfy lives but we have to walk on the body of someone to live them. Crumple their bones like the dollar bills fisted into pockets.
No, Freedom isn't free.
My girlfriend once told me about the time she watched Sarah Jones perform her brilliant one woman show, during which she portrayed a homeless woman who said people don't like to look at her because she's actually our reflections. I've always remembered that.
Waiting on the platform for the Q to take me home, as cars flickered pass me with bundles of blankets and coats hunched over in the corners, I couldn't help but put my head down because I felt
so
ugly.
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