Street People: Invisible New York Made Visible by Bookbinder David J

Author:Bookbinder, David J.
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: street people
Publisher: Transformations Press
Published: 2022-06-28T16:00:00+00:00

I lost sight of Frankie’s car. Disoriented, as if I’d walked out of a movie in which I’d played a minor role, I descended into the subway and began the long trip home.

Manhattan Notebook

I’d been working all morning and needed a break.

Out my window, I looked down on the great spider structure of the elevated tracks, and just beyond them the edge of Harlem.

I climbed onto the fire escape. The sun was high, the sky clear and brilliant. Pigeons swirled overhead in great interlocking arcs, an occasional straggler breaking from the group and arcing out on its own. They circled low, close to the rooftops, in ever-tightening loops, their wings emitting a collective whisper as they screwed down toward the coop two buildings over, and home. This was my home, now.

I tapped my shirt pocket, but the cigarette pack was flat, so I headed down to SafeTees, the local market, for more. My new roommate had told me the man who ran it was “a very special person,” and I wondered, briefly, if there was something going on between them, but it was none of my business. I just wanted a pack of smokes.

I lived on the fifth floor. The elevator stopped for me, but before I could press “B,” it continued on to the sixth, heedless of my desires. A small old man wearing a grey hat entered. I noticed a tattoo on his wrist — from the concentration camp, I assumed. We’d never spoken, and we said nothing to each other as we rode down to the basement.

Younger and quicker, I made it out of the building several seconds ahead of him. Near the iron gate that opened onto the street, a young man, pale and all bones and angles, lay sprawled on the pavement. I knelt down beside him. His face was covered with rough, red scales. His eyes were open.

The old man joined me. I held the young man’s wrist, checking for a pulse. The arm felt limp, a dead thing, but his heart beat steadily.

“I know him,” the man from the sixth floor said. His accent was Jewish. “He is drunk. He lives in the building. I know his family for years.”

“Can we help you?” the old man said to the young drunk. We tugged him to a sitting position. He mouthed a word that could have been “drunk,” but he made no sound.

“He is drunk,” the old man repeated. He motioned to me. “Come on.” We each grabbed an armpit and pulled the young drunk to his feet. When the old man and I let go, he remained standing. He clutched his keys in one hand and attempted to balance with the other.

“Can you make it?” the old man asked.

The drunk man took a few steps forward, staggered, then caught himself on the fence. “All right?” the old man asked.

The young drunk shook the old man’s hand and kissed him on the cheek. He turned and did the same with me, then wobbled toward the basement door.

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