I used to see Anthony standing along the wall of the steep pathway leading from the #6 train down to the #7 platform. He was on crutches and was missing his right leg, his pants folded back on that side. Had an old black Bible in one hand and was always fingering a rosary with the other. He must have been about 35 or so. Never asked for money, but many of us gave it to him because of his sincere smile.
I would take the #6 from 96th street down to Grand Central Station and then transfer to the #7 to get across town to Times Square, which was two blocks from where I worked. It was easier than the shuttle to my way of thinking.
So I would sort of gallop-walk down that ramp, and most mornings I’d see Anthony.
He always smiled and said, Good morning, brother! I would shake his hand though it was dirty and cigarette stained, and I felt guilty afterwards because I wanted to wash up.
Showing posts with label subway. Show all posts
Showing posts with label subway. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
A sincere smile
Friday, April 06, 2007
through other eyes
The young man climbed the sticky steps of the Manhattan subway station exiting at 86th Street and Lexington.
Recent rain on a summer day had dried too quickly and not cleaned the concrete of half-dried soda, food, spit and slime, and the young man stepped with his head down, moving with the Sunday morning crowd, one of many, not a separate individual so much as a piece of a whole.
“Twenty-five cents for a meal!” shouted a voice at the top of the stairs where the exterior light met the dank of the subway tunnel. The voice had a Deep South accent, gravelly, older, black. Directed at everyone: “Ah fought in the wah faw yuh!”
The young man raised his eyes and saw a man in a filthy dark grey suit. Soiled tie. Silver beard. Yellowed teeth.
“You want breakfast?” the younger man asked.
“Oh. OH! Yes!”
“C’mon.”
They walked together to a diner a few steps away and, entering, asked for a table for two. The host looked over the grey suit and hesitated for just a moment. The young man eyed him.
Seated, they were given menus.
They ordered and soon the older man was presented with eggs, home fries and biscuits. He exclaimed, “Thank you, Jesus!” and started in.
They ate in silence for a while. The older man made grumbling noises while he stuffed the scrambled eggs in his mouth.
At once: “Hallelujah, Hallelujah, HALLELUJAH!” the man shouted to noone in particular, bits of half-chewed egg flying across the table. Other diners looked their way.
The younger man learned that his dining companion lived in a shelter in Harlem five days a week but was turned out each weekend. The older man had been begging for money to stay somewhere that night. He claimed he had a daughter who lived some distance away who wasn’t in a position to help financially. He had no family in New York City.
The bill was paid and they left the restaurant. They said goodbye, and the young man continued on to his church, where he arrived late for the service.
And didn’t care.
Recent rain on a summer day had dried too quickly and not cleaned the concrete of half-dried soda, food, spit and slime, and the young man stepped with his head down, moving with the Sunday morning crowd, one of many, not a separate individual so much as a piece of a whole.
“Twenty-five cents for a meal!” shouted a voice at the top of the stairs where the exterior light met the dank of the subway tunnel. The voice had a Deep South accent, gravelly, older, black. Directed at everyone: “Ah fought in the wah faw yuh!”
The young man raised his eyes and saw a man in a filthy dark grey suit. Soiled tie. Silver beard. Yellowed teeth.
“You want breakfast?” the younger man asked.
“Oh. OH! Yes!”
“C’mon.”
They walked together to a diner a few steps away and, entering, asked for a table for two. The host looked over the grey suit and hesitated for just a moment. The young man eyed him.
Seated, they were given menus.
They ordered and soon the older man was presented with eggs, home fries and biscuits. He exclaimed, “Thank you, Jesus!” and started in.
They ate in silence for a while. The older man made grumbling noises while he stuffed the scrambled eggs in his mouth.
At once: “Hallelujah, Hallelujah, HALLELUJAH!” the man shouted to noone in particular, bits of half-chewed egg flying across the table. Other diners looked their way.
The younger man learned that his dining companion lived in a shelter in Harlem five days a week but was turned out each weekend. The older man had been begging for money to stay somewhere that night. He claimed he had a daughter who lived some distance away who wasn’t in a position to help financially. He had no family in New York City.
The bill was paid and they left the restaurant. They said goodbye, and the young man continued on to his church, where he arrived late for the service.
And didn’t care.
photo: haqit
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