mr. homeless man

Me, I'm pissed off. I've been wandering around the Lower East Side for the past fifteen minutes trying to find a subway stop, it's cold out and some bum I walked past just announced "white people should burn in hell." My right ear is sore from having my cell phone jammed up against it for the duration of a six minute argument with a friend, in which I finally told him to "F--- off," -- which, by the way, he most righteously deserved.

So now, I've finally found my way to the elusive subway stop and I'm crying. Just a little bit. Nothing major, a few tears in the wind type of thing. I'm not sure if it's because I'm upset or because it's so damn cold out. Either way, I'm wondering if my mascara is going to start smearing, which would increase the shit factor of the entire evening.

As I'm digging my metro card out of my business-card-holder-that's-not-a-real-wallet, I notice a homeless man standing by the steps down to the track, holding out a change cup. He doesn't rattle it at anyone, and is just holding it in front of him rather lethargically. The man does speak up, though. A lot. At any person who walks by. "Dollar? Dollar? Money? You got money?"

I am irritated. There are thoughts in my head along the lines of 'get a freakin' job, dude.' (I'm still waiting for the day when I snap and say that to someone.) A few people within the homeless guy's range are giving me funny looks, and I think it must be out of sheer curiosity -- is that girl just standing there? Or is she crying? And if she is, why the hell is she standing next to some crackhead who's bothering everyone within shouting distance?

Finally, I have my subway pass firmly in hand, and I start to make my way to the stairwell. Old Mister Homeless, though, has decided he needs to ask me for some cash.

"Dollar?"

And suddenly, I feel nice. So I say, "No, sorry."

"Two dollars?"

This is turning into some kind of reverse bidding war. I'm annoyed, but also amused at how brazen this guy is to stand around and ask people for cash. Not change. Dollars. In multiple amounts.

I shake my head at him, starting down the stairs slowly.

"You upset about something? You need me to cheer you up? I'll cheer you up."

Now I start to laugh. The situation is too absurd, too New York. One minute ago I wanted to stab someone I'm close with, and now a complete stranger is making me smile.

"I'm good, thanks. But I appreciate it."

(See how nice I can be?)

"Alright, well, you come back if you need cheering up. I'll cheer you up. You know where to find me."

The minute I see how full my train is, the shit factor creeps right back up again. The only seat left is in that little row posted as 'Reserved for the Disabled and Elderly' or however the MTA likes to express their elitist seating rules. A quick scan of my fellow passengers is evidence enough that there are no disabled/elderly/whatever folks around, and so I snag the seat -- only to be stuck between some record industry guy who has a really puffy jacket on and an old Chinese man who keeps accidentally bumping me with his elbow.

Between the over sized clothing and newspaper reading senior, I'm a cramped, squished up and exhausted ball of human flesh. The only good thing about this ride back home is the smell. Yes, I said it. A subway car smelled good.

Like banana bread.

So now I'm back in my apartment and craving some. Home baked, too. Preferably made by the hands of my mother or sister, and put in the oven with lots of TLC.

(Anyone want to overnight me some banana bread? Your karma will thank you.)