Angel’s World
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 She is quiet, withdrawn, and an attempt to talk to her inside the shelter brought no response.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of this New York City homeless shelter are agitated, emotional, teetering on the edge of losing it, and others are so withdrawn they barely speak, there are moments here of absolute clarity.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.