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All from NYC, where I grew up. I was working for a film company (an editing house) and had a lot of time to spend on the street, going from sound stages on the west side, to sound engineers and post-production film houses in midtown. This was the late seventies; NYC was still a pretty dangerous and dirty city (think Travis Bickle's soliloquy in his cab with the windshield wipers beating away the rain).
First, I recall a guy that used to have a shopping cart full of stuff, his face waxen as if he wore a mask, and his hair shoe-polish black and slicked back hard as a helmut. He'd march up and down broadway playing with his drum sticks, tossing them up 20 feet in the air and catching them in perfect syncopation, never breaking a stride. A local talk show host -- argh, I can't recall his name! but any insomniac my age from NYC remembers his channel 9 or 11 late night talk show with his cheesy and has-been showbiz guests -- he had this guy on his show, he'd become a fixture, part of the city's character (albeit the underside). And when he spoke it could have been your Uncle Joe or brother Jimmie. There really was someone home in there, with a history of striving and failing and finally settling into his own lived-lines.
Second, there was this tall guy, with unkempt beard and hair spiking out from his head as if he stuck a finger in an electric socket (looked like a famous professor from Stony Brook who appeared in Midnight Cowboy). Always with many layers of jackets and pants on, all too small, ripping at the seems and exposing ankle and wrists. He must have been 6 foot 9 at least. Everyday he'd walk slowly through the crowded Pan Am Building concourse (Met Life building now), head held high as if proud, as if he knew he belonged there as much as any of the hundreds walking hurriedly by (the hundreds that didn't even sense his presence, this invisible regal giant). One winter I took a trip to Florida. And in Light House Point (just south of Boca Raton), there he was, sitting by himself on a medium of Federal Highway! Summers in NY and winters in Florida? Many of us strive to achieve the same!
Third, and last, towards the end of every day I used to have to take a bus up 5th avenue and change at 57th street to cut across town. At the northwest corner of the intersections there were several very trendy boutiques with extraordinarily expensive clothes. I'd see an old bag lady pull her bag up into an alcove every evening like clock work. She'd settle the bag, then take a rolled-up newspaper out and sweep the long sidewalk from the trendy boutique to the curb while rush hour men and women hurriedly step around her without paying her any mind. Some carelessly flicking a cigarette onto the just swept sidewalk. She'd pick it up and stumble after the perpetrator mumbling something no one could understand, then toss the butt in the trashcan, sweep and mumble some more, then settle in for the night.
She'd sit up against the wall of the boutique. Above her head, skinny mannequins held court in the windows, dressed in evening gowns that cost more money than she's likely ever seen. She'd settle there and spread her legs and ... pee. Long streams of urine would run down the sidewalk to the street. And whenever one of these hurried men and women, those who's peers just moments before paid her no mind, when one of these would step in the stream the old lady would laugh hysterically slapping her sides until she settled again, spread her legs, and worked up a fresh stream. I watched her do this for months, till I took another job.
We live in a strange universe where life fills every available niche -- and sidewalk. I've always felt more kindred to these than to those who run the ship of state. I always help when asked, when I can (change if not bills), and without exception I always give a kind word and a smile. Because 'It Might be the Prince of Peace returning'.
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