he’s standing near the subway entrance
at 44th and 8th
a thin white man
medium height with bright eyes
dressed in slightly worn blue jeans
and a nice striped shirt
that he’s had on
for a few too many days
he’s underdressed for the mild winter day
holding a 5 by 8 piece of lined white paper
wants money no doubt
seems to be in his 30s
but you never can tell
he says his name is Tom and is a vet
i’m thinkin’ iraq war
as he speaks i notice his bad teeth
misaligned with maybe one missing
not quite the british look
more west virginia
he runs his script
like a ball rolling down a hill
bumping along
haltingly picking up steam
he occasionally points to the paper
which has letters and numbers
in several sizes shapes colors
and handwritten fonts
he lives in a vet shelter in new jersey
can stay there as long as he’s workin’
just lost his job
went to the city for a couple of interviews
thinks he maybe landed a gig in brooklyn
gotta get back to the shelter now
he says he got MS
from his mom
who had it before him
the disease usually skips
a generation
but didn’t in his case
he likes this corner we’re on
it’s as far from port authority as he can handle
but a straight shot down 8th avenue
to get back there
it’ll cost him twenty nine fifty to get home
nineteen fifty for one bus, ten dollars for another
he shows this to me
on the piece of paper
written proof
i hand him thirty bucks
his face lights up like a kid
who just got a case of candy
he asks where he can get
something cheap to eat
i point down 44th toward 9th
there’s a pizza place
right off the corner
he hesitates
says i don’t want to
lose this corner
i say it’s one block there
and one block back
as he slowly walks away
i notice his limp
David Belmont Writer 