"5/11/06 (technically 5/12)"
By
Teresa Hartmann
It
was one of those situations you’re taught about as a girl, or any young person
growing up in New York. I didn’t know
why I had to go to the bank—it was late and I should’ve taken a car service
home, but I bought a donut and a hot chocolate and I walked right by that car
service, got on the 2 train and rode it all the way to the end – Flatbush
Avenue/Brooklyn College.
I
got to the bank, eager to see if, indeed, my pay scale had gone up—I had been
assured a few weeks earlier that it was going to, but somehow I still wouldn’t
believe it until I saw it. Walking into
the lobby, where the ATMs are (it was after midnight and long since any
employee had been in the building), I was startled by a large sleeping form
huddled along the wall where the radiator is, the one least visible from the
outside—in fact completely invisible to anyone not actually inside.
He
was in a washed out orange shirt and had his head on a blanket or jacket or
something like that. Close by was a
small square-ish black duffel bag, though I think I didn't see that until
later. He was facing away and clearly
asleep—practically snoring, but I knew immediately that I should leave, that that was the correct standard of behavior. But I had come here with this purpose and I
was going to deposit that check.
Every
move I made seemed amplified hundreds of times as I retrieved a deposit
envelope from the ATM and proceeded to ruffle though my bag for the elusive pen
that is forever alluding me (and has been the cause many times of my having to
literally turn back and go home check still in hand, because you just can't
endorse something with a pencil).
Now,
however, I was fairly confident that I had one – the question was where. As I rifled through my purse, I was suddenly
aware of the incredibly unnecessary amount of noise I was making and, looking
at his sleeping back just a few small feet away, I started violently, tension
seizing my body and breath as I realized the full danger of my position. It would be so easy!
In
a minute I would turn my back to put my card in the ATM and leave my back
vulnerable—he would grab me from behind, maybe even push a gun into my back and
take all I had. Though it wasn’t this so
much that I feared but the very invisibility of where he lay on the floor and
the possibility of my being thrust into his blind corner, his body on top of
mine, the weight of it…
I
took a shaky breath, not yet willing to run away, or thinking that running
might be as bad as staying but waiting just to be finished and out of there! I fumbled with the envelope, finally getting
it out of the bag and struggling to gain control over my hands and open it.
Sudden
movement flashed in my periphery and I snuck a glance two feet to my left where
I knew he lay. Two very bloodshot light
eyes met mine, angry, before I looked away quickly.
“I
don’t mean nothing!” he said, a little too loud, like a man awaking from a
drunken daze.
“It’s
okay,” I said—my voice a little higher than I would’ve liked. Rushing now to get that check signed as
quickly as possible while pretending it didn’t exist.
“You
scared the shit out of me! I don’t mean
nothin…”
A
nervous laugh—“Well, you scared the shit out of me.”
An
almost laugh in response “I don’t mean nothin’.”
“You're
okay.”
“What
the hell are you Filipino or something?”
“Well…
yes… actually. Partially.” In spite of myself, I am shocked by this, not
all unpleasantly—“what made you say that?”
“I
know everything—I’m a psychic.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“I
usually sleep at the McDonalds but the cops kicked me out tonight. I know what you’re thinking—I don’t usually
sleep here.”
“Hmm.”
“I
know people think I’d be here to take money from people but I’m not like that –
I got two sisters that live around here.”
“Where?”
“What
the fuck do you wanna know that for—are you writing a book?!!” (A flash
of anger—I’ve hit a chord.)
“No…”
“I’m
a veteran.” This is most likely true—he’s
got a shaved head and a pair of eyes that have seen horrors.
He
continues: “What else are you? Italian?”
“No.”
“Spanish?”
“Nope.”
“Jewish?”
“No. I thought you were a psychic?”
“Yeah,
well. Irish?”
“No.”
“Scottish?”
“A
little yeah.”
“What
else?”
“Norwegian. Polish, French. Bunch of stuff.”
“You
Catholic?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’re
you from?”
“Not
far from here.”
“Where?”
“This
neighborhood. Midwood.”
“You’re
not from Brooklyn.”
“I
am.”
“No. You're not from here.”
“I
am though.”
“You're
not.”
“I
swear. I was born here. I was brought home from the hospital to a
house in this neighborhood.”
“You're
not fucking from here. You know what I
mean. You’re too fucking sweet. You're not like people around here.”
(Too
fucking naïve he means. Or too fucking
stupid…)
Quietly:
“I was though.”
I
am finished at the ATM, having just taken out some cash—$60 in twenties that I
hope he won’t see. I pocket them and
fumble around in my pocket for what change I have. I feel stupid giving him change when I have
real money on me but I can’t rightly give him a twenty.
(Later
I wonder if he would’ve even taken it.)
“You
got a boyfriend? Where’s your boyfriend
tonight?”
“No.”
“What
do you mean, no? A pretty girl like
you? You have such a nice face. The face of a…”
“Well…
there’s this guy I’m… seeing.”
“Yeah? You got a boyfriend.”
“He’s
not my boyfriend. Its just got started.”
“You
have the sweetest face. You got a dollar
for me?”
I
hand him the change—it’s probably around 80 cents.
“I’m
sorry this is all I have.”
“You
have the sweetest face. Get the fuck out
of here.”
“O…kay.”
“Leave
me alone. I’m tired. I have to go to sleep. You’re a sweetheart.”
“Good
night. Nice talking to you.”
“Hey. What’s your first name? Please?”
I
hesitate. Who could he tell? For some reason I wanted to give him my name,
even though he was cursing at me.
“Teresa.”
“Teresa. I’m John.”
“Nice
to meet you.”
“Now
get the fuck outta here & leave me alone!”
“I
will!”
I
leave. Strangely high from the
experience. John. I wonder if I’ll ever see him again. I wish I’d offered him that $20. Or I could’ve bought him something—though there’d
be nothing open at this hour.
I
realize that I am flushed from having broke the barrier of not interacting with
homeless people that makes me feel so awful, but also just fascination with
this man who could shift so quickly between complimenting and cursing me in one
breath.
It
occurs to me that his “identifying” me as a Filipino and his being a veteran
are most likely related and that this connects us in a larger sense—would he
have been stationed in the Philippines?
If so, we share a history beyond Brooklyn and the human race. He certainly lashed out when I asked where
his sisters were. None of my business
anyway, but certainly a sensitive spot.
I
want to help him. I feel bad that I
could think of such a thing as he must feel, that a girl so young and weak
could have so much pity for a big older veteran living on the streets, scarred
by all he saw over there. The nameless
things.
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