Monthly Archives: June 2014

His feet are his shoes

27 Friday Jun 2014

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His feet are his shoes, literally. There’s a homeless man I pass each morning in the Columbus Circle station. He is always asleep, tilted to the side, his plump body wedged between the wooden bench he inhabits and the wall. He wears a black coat and black pants both so dirty they are starting to look grey. I’ve never really seen his face, and I’m not sure when I began to notice his feet.

His feet are large, plump, and uncovered. They are cracked and scabbed, calloused and worn. These feet fascinate me, maybe because being barefoot in New York City is so forbidden to start with. Maybe because comfortable footwear for the daily trekking that happens here is of utmost importance as I’ve learned firsthand. His feet look like eggplants to me, when you broil them and the skin turns from purple to dark purple brown and begins to crack and blister up. Everyday I try to sneak a peek at his feet as I walk by. At first I thought maybe I should bring him a pair of shoes, but the bottoms of his feet have already become as hard and leathered as the souls of shoes and it would be weird to put a shoe inside another shoe. And then I began to fantasize about washing his feet.

I am fully aware that this is bizarre, and I don’t even know how the idea got into my head, but I really want, in some crazy way, to wash this guy’s eggplant feet. At first it was a strange impulse, and now it is a full color fantasy that plays like a movie in my mind each time I walk by. I would carefully carry a circular white plastic or soft pastel color basin of warm water up to him. I would gently and quietly place it on the ground next to his feet. Then I would place a fluffy white towel, folded in half, in front of his feet and kneel down onto it. Slowly I would touch and lift his feet, one at a time, and place them like treasures into the warm water. The water would have a layer of soft suds floating on it – lavender which I really like might be too strong for all those cracks and sores, so maybe it would be scented with something more gentle like honey, or vanilla, or maybe chamomile. In this fantasy movie I wash him with a soft cloth, like the kind I use on Cub each morning. A little square the size of a coaster made of the softest terrycloth you can find. I would move it slowly between his toes, and along the sides of his feet where the black line of dirt sits like a water line reminder left on a wall after a flood. Then I tenderly swaddle each foot in another fluffy white towel and gently pat them dry. I place them back on the subway station floor, gather my things, and walk silently away. He never wakes up in my foot-washing fantasy, nor does he know I exist and think of him everyday as I walk by in real life.

Sometimes I find the things that go on inside my head surprising, amusing, entertaining even to me. Like my subconscious mind is a circus, a carnival, playground, taking in all the stimulus from the day – the sights the smells the interactions and thoughts – then scrambling them up in a big tilt-a-whirl and feeding them back to me in fun-house style Technicolor sleeping dreams and waking fantasies. If the world, especially New York, is a big fun crazy place, the world inside me is bigger and more fun and definitely at times much crazier. I was smiling to myself about my weird foot-washing movie this morning as I sat on the floor in front of the bathtub. I was gently washing between Cub’s toes, combing out her hair, lifting her into a fluffy white blanket and tenderly patting her dry. That’s when I realized what the carnie circus master in my mind was prodding me to notice. This man with the eggplant feet that are his shoes was once someone’s baby. And I didn’t feel crazy anymore.

Helped with stroller on stairs downtown: somewhat non-descript white guy with a bad haircut, about 6 foot tall, navy shorts and maroon polo shirt, grey suede sneakers with no socks, looked like a graduate student. Shuffled near me with hands in pockets too shy to ask if I needed help until I looked at him and gave him a subtle nod and half smile indicating it was okay. He then asked if I needed help, I said yes, and gave him the rest of the smile. 

Tip of the day: if you are going to visit new york or move to new york, just know whatever you consider your comfiest shoes are most likely not going to cut it. This is good because it makes things more simple in a way – you will get a truly comfy pair of shoes, and you will wear them every single day. I wore the same pair of Merrell boots everyday for the first three months I was here, and now I wear a pair of Sketchers Go Walk loafers every single day. This also frees up closet space, which you will undoubtedly be grateful for.

I am a person

26 Thursday Jun 2014

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Sometimes I play the game, “Drop Me in the World.” It’s a game I made up of course, and it is played entirely in my own mind. Drop me at any random location in the world: side of the road in Nicaragua, Red Square Moscow, island in Malaysia, corner of 59th and Columbus NYC, with no money, no phone, no contact list, just what I can carry on my back, and what would I do? Where would I stay the first night? What would I eat? Where would I start in building a new life, finding work, finding money, shelter, food? Who would I approach for help and what would my pitch be? What type of sign would beget the best results for begging on a street corner – which corner would be best, locally trafficked or tourist trafficked? You get the idea… you start from scratch and build a theoretical new life step by step in chosen location. I think there is an extreme survival TV show version of this game, where they drop someone off on top of a glacier, middle of the desert, deserted island and they have 72 hours to make it to civilization – the show is called Dude You’re Screwed.

I’ve discovered a new survival option that happens inside New York subway cars – in my mind I call it oratory begging. Once the train doors close, a person steps to the middle of the car and begins a speech: about how they are in troubled times, have suffered a loss, have children to support and would like to call on the humanity of all those listening to help in any way they can. They are typically very articulate, decently clothed and well groomed. The stories involve elements of things familiar to most people – rent or mortgages, job instability, family obligations. They are down and out, but down and out in a highly socialized way. They often point out they were once just like us, until something happened and they fell of the track.

Today when the doors closed, a 40 something man, thin, Kelly blue polo shirt and black pants, began his speech: “I – am a person. Who – believes – sometimes you must do what you need to do. And that – is why – I – am here today in front of you.” Everyone was silent because it is always a little uncomfortable to be trapped in a confined space with someone who is begging from you, but today I think the car was silent because this man, obviously a trained orator, had a BEAUTIFUL voice. He sounded part Southern Preacher, but less dramatic and more refined, like a professor, or public speaker, or actor who might be called as a back up when Sidney Poitier wasn’t available. He sounded like a man who would recount the foraging habits of the North American black-tailed prairie dog on a PBS show, or some quintessential fatherly voice whose insight and knowledge would make any childhood problem vanish into thin air and hugs.

I’ve also discovered, during confined oratory begging, you can feel the collective uncomfortableness of the other passengers, right along side the collective desire to help. Both are palpable, in equal proportions. Another game I play in my mind is called “Start It.” I suppose it is more of a sociology experiment, but in these situations I like to break the giving ice and be the first to put a dollar in the bucket, not so much because I think my dollar will really help this man, but because I want to see how many people will follow suit once someone makes giving collectively acceptable. Today I gave my dollar to Cub, who was entranced by his oratory (and probably secretly thinking “that man would really rock Good Night Moon with that beautiful voice”). She’s at a stage where she really likes to put things in… and take things out. She reached up and put the dollar in his cup. And then the lady next to me gave a dollar, and another girl across the car gave. I’m not sure how much he made off our car, or what his real story is, or what life he led that groomed such a beautiful voice, but it felt good to give and like good parenting to be the ice breaker. At the next stop the doors opened and he was gone, and in my mind I thought to myself “I too – am a person – who believes – that sometimes you have to start it. And let others draft off your intentional courage.”

Helped carry stroller on stairs downtown: Latino man, young forties, fit, heather grey T-shirt and jeans, large diamond stud in ear. Started down stairs next to me, stopped, came back up a stair and lifted the other side of the stroller without even asking if I needed help.

Helped carry stroller on stairs uptown: Weather was beautiful so we walked.

Tip of the Day: when you gather your things in the morning – metro card, phone, etc. – make sure to put a few dollar bills in a handy place. There are amazing musicians you may encounter, or oratory beggars, or who knows what and you will want a dollar ready to give. This is for you more than them. If the money is handy you can guiltlessly enjoy the music without having to rifle around in your bag looking for a dollar as the train pulls up. You will be more present in the moment, and I just read a quote that said “no one has ever become poor from giving.”

Touch

25 Wednesday Jun 2014

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I’m not sure if you are supposed to let your baby hold a stranger’s finger on the New York subway, but I did – twice. It seemed like the thing to do at the moment, and without proper knowledge of unspoken subway protocol (I’m new to New York City), I went with the humanity of the moment. Once was a soft wrinkly abuela who had been smiling and cooing to my step-daughter, whom I affectionately call Cub. Cub didn’t seem to really notice the smiles and soft clucking sounds until we entered a tunnel and the train darkened.  She reached up and gently grasped the abuela’s finger, and held it contently for the next 40 blocks.

The second time was a disheveled old man, the type that may be homeless, but more likely is a rumpled academic – a retired professor who lives more in the pages of yellowing books than in the world. Cub likes to stare sometimes (such a privilege of the young, to stare opening at anyone for as long as you would like), and under her gaze he began smiling and waving, vying for a return smile, lift of her soft little hand. At some point, he bent forward and reached his shaky hand out towards her. He had some scabs that looked like the kind older folks get that don’t heal quickly, his fingers bumped and knarled by time. To be honest it wasn’t a hand you really wanted to touch, but as Cub reached out for it I wonder when the last time this old man had been touched? I let her reach out and slowly touch his outstretched finger – like some strange subway mashup of ET and Michaelagelo’s Creation of Adam. Maybe it wasn’t good parenting to let her touch that hand, but it felt like being a good person to let him have that moment of small affection.

Everyday I ride the New York subway, and everyday something interesting happens. This is all new to me – the city, the people, having a child, and maybe that’s why I feel so acutely present on the subway. There is something that happens when complete strangers share a space in silence, their bodies close, lysting and leaning in unison in the dark. It kind of reminds me of meditation, or yoga, or a packed night club where the same deep thump thump thump is beating in each person’s chest. One of our most vulnerable states is to be asleep, and yet people do it on the subway, in front of strangers, all the time. It’s so intimate to sleep in public and I love that this is obviously perfectly fine in the unspoken rules of subway protocol.  Then I can stare openly at someone, as long as I like, baby Cub style.

Helped carry stroller on stairs downtown: tall man in black suit, bald with eastern block accent. looked a little like a hit man and told me he has a baby the same age as Cub.

Helped carry stroller on stairs uptown: 30-something professional guy with black briefcase and Jos. A. Banks suit bag. Navy blue pin-striped pants, blue and white striped shirt, brown suede loafers, pretty blue eyes with long eye lashes. I walked behind him for a block or two until he stopped, turned as if he had just remembered something, and ducked into a NY State lottery store.

Tip of the Day: If you are riding the subway with a baby stroller, watch as the train pulls up and try to go in the car with the most old people in it. They really like babies, and are much more understanding when you run over their toes with the stroller or your baby kicks their leg the entire ride.