I’m on Broadway, walking to the subway, when I am approached by a black
man maybe in his 30s with his arm outstretched, and I think he’s fund-raising
for some nonprofit because they are sometimes aggressively friendly. And I’m
trying to see what organization is on his T-shirt.
He comes
right up to me, puts his hand on my shoulder, and starts his spiel, which is
that he’s homeless and hungry, and can I help him get something to eat, and he’ll
even recite a poem, which he starts to do. It takes me a few seconds to realize
that he still has his hand on my shoulder, that he didn’t do it merely to stop
me, and I say, “Please don’t touch me” (did I say “please”? I don’t remember).
He removes his hand. And I think I should give him something, so I get out my
wallet and give him a dollar. He takes it and walks away.
He was
ordinary looking, with the beginning of a beard, wearing neat clothing, just a
few inches taller than me. The most curious thing about this encounter is that
I never felt afraid or threatened. Why not? He did not look like he’d been
living on the street. He looked like someone I might know. As though anyone I
might know could not be living on the street.
