When I think about where I am going, where I've been and where I am... I suppose that most things happen for a sort of random-like purpose. "If you're open to it, all things appear to you", that kind of thing. Lately I have been thinking about small things. Micro-Thinking.
"Why is it that some days I feel like the wind finds its way to allow for nonstop tailwinds, other days-I ride into a headwind, pull a U-turn on that same street, and it's another headwind". Odd.
On my rides lately, I have been digging a new route whereby I ride through the worst parts of the city. Lots of drug addicts, pimps & prostitutes, homeless cities erected in and around abandoned buildings. There is something sublime in all the squalor, something noble. Something absolutely 'Honest'. No Keepin' up with the Joneses at all. People leading their lives, regardless of morals or judgment-they are alive and doing what needs doing [based on their way of seeing things]. I can respect that, or better said, Respect "The Essence" of That [not the obvious abuse of people mind you]. Who am I to judge them anyway.
There is this warehouse building that recently booted out all the squatters living there, pretty much ripped the thing apart to just its bare shell, rebuilt it back up, made it super industrial looking, and then offered 1, 2 and 3 bedroom condos for $699,000 up to 2.5 million. Every night when I ride by the building, behind the back of the building, there is one homeless fella that refuses to leave the place and go somewhere else. He waits until darkness falls, takes his Target shopping cart, tips it sideways and slides it under this huge wooden loading dock, and then he tucks himself under 10 or so medium size carpet remnants and goes to sleep. Last week, after weeks of riding by him in cold, dark, freezing weather, I stopped. I walked myself and my bike over to the loading dock, and mumbled "Excuse Me?". Nothing. I rang my $10.00 brass bike bell. Nothing. I then said, "Are you ok under there?". He mumbled something like, "I ain't bothering nobody or you... leave me be. Please".
I paused for a minute and then said, "I don't want to bother you either... I want to make sure you're ok". He peeked out at me. He looked very old, and not well. We talked that first night for 20 minutes...
He was born in San Francisco, and came from "Educated, Good parents" as he said. He went to USC and dropped out because he had a falling out with his dad about the classes he was taking. He couldn't get any loans on his own because his folks had money and the powers that be didn't care that he was flying solo, so college was done for him. He enlisted in the Army and went to Vietnam [this surprised me because he looked a lot older than a Vietnam Vet should]. He was in the infantry and stayed there for 3 years. After getting discharged, he took what money he had and came east to New York City because an old girlfriend of his had moved here a few years before his discharge. He found her, and her son... and then found out, his son. He worked for the City as a Sanitation Engineer [garbage man] and got hit in the head with the edge of a dumpster in 1977. The accident left him, "Not quite right in the bucket", as he called it. Before this happened, the girlfriend became his wife and they lived in Queens with their child. After the accident, she left him and took their son. He has no idea what became of them... mainly because he was in and out of various state institutions for a host of problems due to his injury. Eventually they found him to be "Cured" and booted him out and onto the street. He had no money, no job, no family and... no address. He took to the streets of NYC. Mainly he supported himself by Dumpster Diving and cleaning car windows for tips at either the Holland or Lincoln Tunnels.
The following night, on my ride, I stopped by and after announcing myself to his carpet-ensconced self, he said, "Please go away, tonight isn't good for me". I didn't want to bother him, but I did tell him I brought some food. I sat 2 pounds of my homemade Hummus and 2 large packages of pita, one white and the other whole wheat, by his side and left.
The next night, as I rode by, he was waiting up for me. He thanked me for the food, said he appreciated it very much, and also apologized for his words the night before. I told him not to worry, that I often felt that way about things myself. He said he wanted to talk a bit if that was alright. I told him, "Not a problem... I brought you some more food anyway." I laughed and told him that I liked to cook, and I liked to make folks happy and feel good by making them great food. He smiled. I listened to him talk for 20 minutes or so while he ate some of the chili, Hummus and split pea soup I had brought from home before he told me I should go because somewhere, some place, people must be waiting for me... and that he was getting very cold. He had started shivering badly a few minutes into our chat. He told me he had HIV and Hep C. That he had been doing well with both until lately. He also was adamant that he had contracted both through blood transfusions while in the care of the state, during a number of surgical procedures back before the medical community had known to check blood supplies for tainted blood. He wanted me to know that he never used drugs or was with "Bad People and Dirty Women", as he called them. He asked me if I would stop back, that he was lonely and getting scared about his health... that he would just like someone to talk to, "with no strings attached", as he said. I said, "Of course."
The last handful of nights I've stopped by with food and blankets stuffed to the gills in my Caradice bag... and specifically the last 3 nights I've mounted all 4 of my panniers too, and loaded them up with some clothes, a painting from Chloe for him and some bottled water.
He is gone. I cannot find him. I'm going to keep looking... in all the small, micro places.
"Why is riding away from home always harder than riding toward home... no matter how tired I am, I can always get home without feeling anything definable as Tired or Tiring". Odd.
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