I have spent a great deal of time working in public schools. I have seen the smiles and frowns of over 7000 children. I only came to realize the most recent statistics about the children living in the NYC shelter system. I began to wonder how many of my students considered the local shelter as their home. I began to wonder how many of my children transferred out of their school because their family had been assigned to a shelter in another borough. I began to wonder about the lengths at which as child has to go through in order to understand their circumstance.
Come the summer, the streets of the East Village will be littered with squatters. Clad in black garb, covered in safety pins, carrying card board signs in one hand and a cigarette and a dog in the other, they will inhabit St. Marks from 3rd Avenue to Alphabet City, from parks to abandoned real estate. They are stereotypically criticized for being New Jersey well-to-do kids with too much time on their hands. Sometimes that is the case, other times it is not. There are others who’ve traveled by choice and by circumstance to the Big Apple. Non-Villagers find them to be an eye-sore. Most Villagers on the other hand consider them to be part of the landscape. I wonder about their stories, their truths and their lies. I wonder about the girl in lumber jack blue plaid shirt. She is often alone, no company, no dog.
I entered the last car of the F-Train last month only to be welcomed by the overwhelming smell of a man asleep in the corner. He was wearing dirty blue jeans, dirty jacket, and a bright blue NY Giants knit cap. His legs were stretched out and his face hidden in the shell of his jacket. He smelled terribly bad. As the train traveled through the Brooklyn tunnels, some of the passengers made subtle attempts to crowd themselves into the opposite corner of the train car. Others however seemed unmoved by the presence of this man and his odor. I stood watching eyes furtively glance toward the sleeping man and other eyes glued to the magazines, novels and train advertisements. The Giants had just won the Superbowl and wondered if he was a fan.
Mark’s malnourished figure was protected by the walls of his overstuffed blue jean jacket. Overstuffed is putting it mildly. His jacket bulged at least a foot from his body at certain parts. He carried no bags; it seemed he kept his life on him, literally. I first saw Mark with his sunken cheeks, stringy dirty blonde hair, and toothless face at Washington Square Park in the 1996. Every time I saw him he was always on the way somewhere; always in transit. In 1999, as an employee at the late Astor Place Barnes & Noble, I watched Mark from behind the café counter, as he asked for change from the customers. He was eventually banned. We became East Village acquaintances and when ever I could, I gave him pastries. We never spoke, just head nods here and there. In the early-mid 2000’s we crossed paths, I smiled and said hello. He stopped. I stopped and asked him how was. He said he’d never been better and he was on his way to a de-tox. He seemed excited. He smiled his toothless smile and asked me to wish him luck. So I did. I haven’t seen him since.
I was told that Jeff was a tennis player, a professional tennis player. According to my bookseller acquaintances Jeff was on his way to “becoming someone” when he busted his knee. In a single swoop, Jeff’s career was over. I met Jeff indirectly as he solicited my bookseller friend Zach for a place to stash his book bag. I’d only ever seen either the top of his head or the bottom of his feet. Jeff was always asleep on the gratings across from the late Bottom Line. His face was beet red, and it has stayed that way through all seasons. His speech is slurred and his body is worn, with his shoulders leading towards the ground. My bookseller friend says he’ll die of wet brain. I pass him still by the gratings. He has met me for the first time over a hundred times.
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