Invisible

The temperature is well into the 90s. He wears his jacket inside out. Traces of fleece lining are seen but most of it has long ago disappeared from his weathered dirty jacket. A t-shirt hangs around his neck; he neglected to put his arms through it. It doesn’t matter because he has another t-shirt under that one. His hair is long and the matted dreads are caked with years of New York grime.

The world goes on around him oblivious to the person sitting atop an old plastic paint can. He fidgets and he inspects. He opens one of the four shopping bags that surround his paint can. He pulls out several coffee cups which he likely collected from the Starbucks trash can just outside the door. He carefully opens each container and pours left over coffee from one cup to another until he comes up with a half full container. He puts the lid back on each of the cups and returns them to his bag.

I sit on my barstool, sip my cold iced green tea and gaze out the large floor to ceiling window at a Starbucks in New York City. Van Morrison’s Bright Side of the Road plays in the background. The city is dense with buildings, cars and people.

A woman walks by with a cigarette in one hand and a cell phone in another. Another woman pushes a stroller while men in business suits hold containers of food and walk purposefully through the city.

An air-conditioning repair man parks his truck in the red and hurriedly leaves passing the man perched on the paint can. The parking patrol quickly swoops down on the air-conditioning truck left behind and gains a few dollars for the city.

Vendors move hot lunch carts about the city streets. A a city worker with a broom and dust pan sweeps a circle around him. The city hustles while the man fidgets. Here is yet another homeless person in this land of opportunity.

A familiar odor comes from the hot dog cart on one corner and on the opposite corner is an outdoor café jammed with customers eating sandwiches while intensely gazing into their IPhones and Blackberrys.

The homeless man pulls an old dirty Styrofoam container from a plastic bag, opens it and takes a bite of someones discarded lunch, then closes it and puts it back in the bag. The woman next to me finishes her latte and Panini, picks up her IPhone, throws it into her designer bag and walks out of the building and down the street.

An hour later the man sitting on the plastic paint bucket begins packing his things into his shopping bags after a final inspection. He stands up, puts on a larger dirty coat and wears it on over the dilapidated inside out fleece coat. He gathers up his bags and paint can and walks down the street and out of sight.

He never asked anyone for money or food. He fidgets. How does it come to this? Wall Street is within walking distance. The only living creatures that take notice are the pigeons who, oblivious to his dire situation, beg for a handout. There but for the grace of God, go I.