3.25.2007

Stories from the N Train

It’s Saturday, late afternoon, and I’m riding the N train from the last stop in Astoria into Manhattan. Four stops in, all seats now taken, a small man, early 30s, boards the train. He’s an angry-faced punk: black hooded sweatshirt, piercings, silver wallet chains hanging from the belt loops of black jean cutoffs.

The punk’s left leg, from the knee to the black high-top sneaker, is made of a shiny metal prosthesis. His right leg is covered in a fresh white cast. He’s using crutches and winces with each step. He addresses the sedate group, flatly.

“This is the most humiliating thing I’ve ever done. I lost my left leg. And this week, I broke my right leg. I don’t have any money. I need Ace bandages, pain medication, and food. When I get off the train, I need to take a taxi to my house because I don’t think I’ll make it if I walk. I’m asking you, begging you, to give me money.”

He stops, leans both crutches against a center pole. He removes his prosthesis, showing the crowd his stump—covered in a bloody, torn Ace bandage. He reattaches the prosthesis, and begins a belabored lap around the train to collect his charity. But nobody gives.

One by one, each of the three or four dozen train riders—male, female, old, young, well dressed, poorly dressed, Mexican, Chinese, Wasp, Greek—diverts their eyes as the man waves his cup expectantly across their laps. Finally, defeated, he takes a seat at the end of the car.

“This ain’t a fun life,” he says, shaking his head disapprovingly. “I can assure you.” The guilt washes over me, and as I try to catch the eyes of my complicit neighbors, I feel theirs, too.

By the time we reach Lexington and 59th Street, the train is packed, and that uncomfortable silence has been replaced by the rustling of newspapers and giggling of a few freshly Frappaccinoed teenagers. The doors close, the train lurches forward, and a petite, cheery-faced woman begins to sing.

She has a beautiful, resounding voice. She’s singing an aria; sounds Italian to me. She’s making her way, slowly, through the crowd, holding her trendy newsboy cap upside-down to receive contributions.

She nods politely to the passengers as, one by one, the vast majority give her $1, $5, even $10 bills.

She gets off two stops later, still singing. I look around for the punk, but he's already gone.

10 comments:

Maggie W. said...

I, too, remember one time on the subway when an attractive, put-together, white twenty-something began strumming his guitar and singing an original anti-Bush song. He made out like a bandit. I think the (very talented) girl who plays violin in the 23rd St. 1 stop does decently as well. Nobody ever gives to the HIV+ guys or women saying they wish they had the courage to jump in front of the train. In-group/out-group, I suppose.

Virginia Hughes said...

I wonder...you may be right. On rare occasions, I do give money to people on the subway. Sometimes it's a musician, sometimes a dirty drunk, sometimes a charismatic "inner city basketball coach"...And immediately afterwards, I always wonder: why that one, this time?

A neuroscientist friend of mine recently suggested that the biggest factor is credibility: nobody wants to be deceived. If a woman says she has seven kids to pay for, and you give her money, and she uses it to buy her next heroin fix, then you'd be a schmuck. Performers and musicians would make more $, then, because they're inherently honest (either they can play the violin or they can't).

Dunno if this theory works with my punk, though, since he was clearly telling the truth about his prosthesis... so maybe here it was the in-group/out-group factor.

Anonymous said...

I cannot believe no one gave. The bloody stump would show he was not a con-artist! I would have given! I don't always give - but in this case I would have given. I often wonder if the person I pass up really did need it. I know for a fact the person I pass up most likely needs it more than me. I know a begger can often make more than a minimum-wage job. But how can we know the needs of the person we pass. How are we to judge? Who are we to judge? Is it better to give to someone who is a con rather than to pass up someone who has real needs? I am just thinking outloud now. But then I once spent six months in Rehabilitation Hospital following an automobile accident. This is why I know I would have given to the punk! I saw the anquish first hand . . . and occasionally feel the humiliation.

Virginia Hughes said...

I agree, it does feel disgusting to pass by someone so clearly in need. I guess another factor, though, especially for those of us who live in a big city, is the sheer number of people who ask for money every day. At some point, I do have to start drawing up criteria...just don't know why I choose certain factors over others.

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