I call them “regulars” because they are always in my neighborhood in downtown Manhattan. They are out-of-luck people who depend largely on the help of others. By now, the regulars have become almost like friends.
There is Sarge, as we call him, a tall, black, heavyset, intelligent man. He was once in the Army (that’s the reason for his nickname), but with time, his health began to deteriorate. Sarge walks with some difficulty. He comes and sits on the steps next to my house at least once a week.
He usually prefaces his request for a handout with a question. “Let me pose you a hypothetical question,” he will say. “Do you think that today there is a possibility you may help me with some change, perhaps also something to eat?” Since he has a genial disposition I am happy to comply.
It is not easy, though, to find foods that he will enjoy, since he claims to have some stomach troubles. I rather believe he is a finicky eater, since there is no specific pattern in what he likes. Despite significant differences in his upbringing, he has something in common with former President George Herbert Walker Bush—they both detest broccoli.
My wife tends to be more generous with the regulars than myself, so it is not surprising that the three of them like her a lot. “I love your wife,” Sarge frequently tells me. When he sees a stern look in my face, he adds, “Not in the way you do, though, not in the way you do.”
We like to tease each other. A couple of weeks ago I told him, “Hey, Sarge, if you win the lottery will you help me out?”
Quick as a weasel he retorted, “Don’t worry, man, I already have you in my will.”
The other regular is Roland, an older man, kind, always with a good word. While my wife was recently in Argentina, he asked me about her every day, probably missing her generous presents. He is also a picky eater, although with a very good reason, since he has had several dental problems in recent times.
He has the drawn face of a heavy smoker, but otherwise he is very properly dressed and speaks with elegance. Regrettably, life has not been kind to him, and now he sleeps on the steps of the neighborhood church, after some unpleasant experiences in a municipal shelter where his things were stolen several times.
I recently saw him being photographed by an Italian tourist. He posed for her and obediently followed her instructions. After she left. I asked him who she was and he told me that she was an art student and that she was planning to use the photographs in her student portfolio at an art school.
“I hope that she gave you something for your help,” I told him.
“I don’t mind. She is only a student,” he said. And he added proudly, “I am sure that she will do a good job.”
Finally there is Joe, another constant presence in the neighborhood. He usually has a paper cup in his hand where he puts the money he collects. Sometimes I think that he collects a lot since I once saw him counting several large bills.
He calls everybody “boss” which is a good way of ensuring a sympathetic response from passersby. He is a young, thin man who walks with a limp and always has a crooked hat on. “Boss, do you have any change?” he would say, handing me his paper cup. I usually give him a few coins.
Each of the regulars seems to follow a certain schedule. I tend to see Joe in the mornings, Roland from midday on, and Sarge in the early evening. Joe’s request for help is so predictable that one day I decided to surprise him.
As soon as I saw him approaching, before he would say anything, I dropped a bunch of coins into his cup. He definitely looked surprised. “Boss, what you are doing?” he yelled at me. “This is my coffee!”
César Chelala writes on human rights issues.
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