A young man moved to New York City to find his dream. He found a few in a city so large. One in particular, he hoped would come true. His life became consumed with pursuit of this dream, and most days his promise was left unfufilled. Years went by without much progress, but then one day the man turned a corner and could see his dream close by.
There were 3000 flags on display today in Inwood Park. The flags commemorated the fallen heroes of September 11, 2001. Every flag had the names of each person who died as a result of the attacks. In addition, there were flags on display from 92 other nations who lost citizens on that day.
The stories of the individuals, that came together on that fall day five years ago, are both heartfelt and troublesome. As many have said today, “there are no words to do the events of that day justice.” Their stories are all that can be said.
The name Angel is a pseudonym. To protect her identity, her real name is not being used here, because she seemed especially vulnerable.
The sun is starting to drop. On the corner, somewhere on New York’s west side, stands Angel, back up against the wall. She appears very young, possibly in her early twenties, with long, thick sandy hair that always obscures part of her face. She is quiet, withdrawn, and an attempt to talk to her inside the shelter brought no response.
She dresses in blue jeans; bell-bottomed, and a loose, flowing blouse with spaghetti straps. Inside–in the shelter–she is always barefoot. She reminds me of a hippie born into the wrong era; a flower child in the Age of Terrorism.
As I approach the corner I recall that Angel was here, in this exact same spot, at least an hour ago, and I ask her if she’s all right. This seems to reach something within her, and she speaks almost tearfully: “I just need to figure some things out.”
And her words reach something in me.
Instinctively, I reach out to hug her, and she hugs me back. Later, she comes into the shelter to spend the night.
Although some of the clients of this New York City homeless shelter are agitated, emotional, teetering on the edge of losing it, and others are so withdrawn they barely speak, there are moments here of absolute clarity. When out of the mouths of the down and out comes unadorned, universal Truth.
When I first moved to the city, I lived in a small studio apartment near the corner of Fulton and Lafayette. I didn’t know much of anything about the city and frankly I was terrified of meeting people at first. I had a neighbor, Jack, who wore punk rock outfits and metal everywhere he went, even to work. I was working an internship at an office nearby and occasionally I would run into Jack as I was leaving for work in the morning, or when I was coming home at night.
Jack always seemed to have a forty in one hand and a menthol cigarette in the other. He had this girl with him who had pink streaks in her hair and wore cutoff t-shirts of the Ramones and Sublime. I sort of had a crush on her, as she was just so cute and shy in a bad girl kind of way. I know Jack realized I liked her. He introduced me one night when I came back from work and he took off down the street, he said to get cigarettes. He yelled back to me, “Keep her entertained, bloke!”
I introduced myself to her and she shook my hand with a shy smile. She had these huge brown eyes. I stumbled over my words and managed to let out that I thought she was very beautiful. She thanked me and turned away, at this point I was sitting on the stair railing, admiring her and looking down the street in the direction Jack had gone.
“He’s not your boyfriend,” I asked.
“Nope. Jack, he’s one of kind. I found him in a punk show about a year ago. We?ve been hanging ever since. He’s gay though.”
“Really? I never would of thought that.”
I later found out she thought he was gay because he never made a move on her, but it turns out Jack had done heroin for about three years when he was growing up. He caught the virus and didn’t like telling people about it. So when he never made a move on Sheila, she just assumed he was gay and let it go at that.
Sheila and I have been married for five years now. Jack died a year after we were married. We both helped take care of him when he was ailing and he was always a good guy. We still miss him to this day.