Dinner with a Homeless Man

Gary sat with his back against the cold bricks of a corner building, his rear on the sidewalk, traffic buzzing by at the intersection of Lexington and 86th Street. As pedestrians walked past, Gary leaned forward, pulling his left pant leg up to reveal an open sore an inch and a half in diameter, layers of pink and red flesh open and exposed nearly down to the bone. Then he began his call, waving a paper cup in one hand, gesturing toward his exposed leg with the other, mumbling to all passersby on the eighteen-degree winter’s night:

“I’m sick. Ain’t had nothing to eat in a day and a half. Anything you can give.”

I was walking toward Gary from the corner of Lexington, dodging cabs through the crosswalk while carrying nine dollars worth of pizza, one sixteen ounce bottle of Coca-Cola and another of Sprite. I sat down next to Gary, sliding the back of my coat down the brick until my legs were flat against the sidewalk and the rest of my body was slouched against the wall.

Gary and I had met only a few minutes earlier. I’d been walking to the subway after visiting a friend when I realized I’d yet to eat dinner. I spotted Gary at his beggar’s post on the corner and, rather than eat alone, I offered to share a meal with him.

“What kinda pizza you want?” I’d asked him.

He was still in begging mode and he clammed up at my inquisition, not sure who I was or what my intentions were.

“I’m getting myself some pizza. I’ll share. What do you want?”

“Just regular cheese,” he said. “No meat. I’m a vegetarian.”

“Cool,” I said, extending my closed hand and bumping my fist with his. I introduced myself. He took a momentary break from his begging to introduce himself as well.

Now, sitting down with our pizza and sodas, I asked Gary where he was staying, how the cold weather was treating him, how the panhandling was going.

It took a moment to gain his trust. Just moments before we’d been two strangers: a beggar and a pedestrian. But now, like actors stepping out of our roles, we were merely two men – equals.

Gary was staying at a privately run shelter for men. He was from New York. He was in his early forties. In conversation, the steam rising from both our moving mouths, Gary became almost eloquent.

“I make what I can out here when I come out,” he told me, gesturing toward his cup. “You don’t want to come out everyday, ya know.”

Gary knew I’d stayed in some homeless shelters before. That had come out in conversation. He knew I’d stayed on the streets before too, as those familiar to the hobo lifestyle are often able to recognize one another.

“You mind if I work my hustle for a sec?” Gary was staring at the group of pedestrians approaching from the crosswalk.

“Make money,” I replied. “That’s what it’s all about.”

He laughed for just a moment, then went right back into character, pointing at the bloody hole in his leg with one hand, waving his change cup in the other, begging people to fill it.

It was an act, what Gary was doing. He was pretending to be more helpless than he really was, shivering a little extra in the cold, breathing a little bit faster, talking a little more poorly, almost as if he was too sick to form a full sentence.

Yet on another level, it wasn’t an act. Gary was really sick. The sore on his leg was real. The blood was real too. The sore was infected and Gary had taken the bandages off and placed them in his pocket, showing the gash to the public as they gave him their one dollar bills, a scene somehow reminiscent of strip clubs or freak shows. Gary had to make money. He had no income. He lived in a shelter, at times on the street. Like most homeless, his lifespan wouldn’t be long.

Gary seemed happy I was sitting with him, just pleased to have someone to talk to, or someone he didn’t have to talk to, someone who treated him like a human being. I was happy about it too. After all, I was just out to make myself happy. Pleasing Gary accomplished that. I knew it would.

One of the stranger parts about being homeless is that you’re always on the receiving end of people’s most polarizing reactions. People are either unusually kind, almost patronizing to you, or, even more commonly, people make mean remarks or ignore you altogether. It’s rare for anyone to engage you in conversation, for anyone to talk to you in the same way they might talk to their brother or their coworker, or even a stranger for that matter.

Another odd part of being a beggar is that you must wear your beggar’s persona if you wish to make any money. That must be a difficult thing to do, mentally and emotionally. Every other day, Gary panhandles for a full twelve hours. Everyone he comes in contact with sees him as the poor, helpless soul he portrays. He acts as that person in order to make his living, just as a courtroom judge acts dignified or a therapists acts empathetic. After days, weeks, months, years of repeating his begging act, I can only imagine the psychological effects. Even the most desperate of beggars use an act, always stressing their vulnerabilities, always speaking in their weakest tone. That's nothing that strengthens a man. Rather, I'm sure it eats away at your self-respect and your self-image. And rarely, as a homeless person, does one have friends to help bolster self-esteem.

Rather It’s been my experience that with the serial homeless – those who are homeless often in their lives – there is a kinship between them, something that makes them familiar to one another, like acquaintances, even when they’ve never met before. For the most part, they look out for one another. They share when they can. They help each other stay clear of the police and other predators. But no matter how often homeless men run into one another, they never really become friends. Most homeless men that I’ve met are loners, either by their own nature or by some type of psychological survival mechanism. Gary and I were no different. We were equals pausing to recognize one another in what can often be a cold and a cruel world. Now we were parting.

Gary offered to pay me for his Sprite and for his half of our pizza. He took the money out of his cup. I told him not to worry about it. Then I stood up, taking our trash with me and bumping Gary on the fist as I left.

“Thanks again, brother,” he whispered to me, another crowd approaching from the crosswalk.

I threw out the soda bottles and the pizza box, descending the stairs into the Subway station as I heard Gary returning to his hustle. He had returned to it just like any other good worker. He’d pulled his pant leg back up to expose his bloody shin. He’d picked up his change cup. As I walked away, I heard him repeating his chant:

“I’m sick. Ain’t had nothing to eat in a day and a half. Anything you can give.”