James of Madison Avenue
-About the homeless guy who lives on my block
Sitting on the steps between a pastry shop and a nail salon, James seems to have little to do with the Upper East Side. It’s his 49th birthday, and although his appearance—grey mixed with the black on his head, weathering of the face, sunken eyes—shows his age, his quick movements and endless energy suggest he’s younger. His eyes dart back and forth, picking out people as they pass, never missing anything. They, too, call to him by his first name, smiling, and often slip him a dollar. He speaks in short, sharp sentences, every now and again pushing longer ones indecipherably through the gaps of his six-toothed gums.
“Damn!” he exclaims, as a plump girl in a skintight green sweater shows off her plaid waddle on the way past. “Damn! Damn!”
“That’s jailbait,” I say, smiling. “She’s not even sixteen.”
“Yes she is.”
“Maybe eighteen.” A moment passes. “How long have you been here?”
“27 years,” he says, with authority. “Used to work at the 92nd St Y. Passing towels. It’s tough out here. Could be better.” Several more plaid skirts swish by, these half the age of the last. Everything on them is clean, everything prim.
“What could make it better?”
“Obama. I’m getting too old for this. Haven’t worked in a while. Won’t get my social security. I want the Democrats.” He pulls his head back, staring up the road. There’s a woman walking towards us with a slight paunch, wearing fish-eye sunglasses despite the overcast.
“When did you last have sex?” I ask. He looks at me for less than a second, and then smiles a big, almost toothless smile.
“This morning. I have sex every day. I had sex this morning. Yeah.”
“With the same woman every day?”
“No, different. I’m married though. Got a common law marriage. I got a son, James, he’s 27. Haven’t seen him in 14 years. A bad kid. Hold on.”
As he half-runs, half-limps up the street I wipe my eyes and face. A little spittle has been splashing on me from his mouth, and judging by the callous on his bottom lip, I’m not sure that’s okay. He comes back, slipping a little more cash in his pocket, and sits.
“I make $8,000 a year,” he says. “Had four or five jobs my whole life. Had TB too, but no more. Damn! I don’t rob, don’t steal. Do drugs every now and then. Don’t tell anyone. I like weed. Mostly alone, but I know everyone. I’m a legend. Everyone here knows me, been here 27 years. These stores look after me. I love my boombox, keep it down there.” He points quickly to the basement of the store we’re sitting next to, nodding. “Everyone wants me to help myself out. Even my sister. I told her to mind her own business [expletive deleted]. She’s on the streets too. My father died of kidneys. Kidney failure, my mother died of AIDS. I came out here when my father died.”
“You became homeless when he died?”
“Yeah. I sleep in doorways, the park, Mount Sinai.”
“You ever get into trouble?”
“Yeah.” He spat on the floor. “Once or twice. A cop, man, bullshit. It was bullshit. Got locked up for sexual harassment—I’m on the list. 9 months for that, 5 for…”
His voice trailed off in his gums, and I missed what he said.
“I love New York, man.” He said, his mouth wide again. I smell a whiff of urine. “I been to Salt Lake, but I didn’t like it. Came back here. I gotta go.”
I watched him get up and walk down the street. His limp, a product of being run over about a month earlier, was getting better. He was wearing white sneakers, Nike, black jeans, and a large blue bomber jacket. Underneath that, I knew, was a blue T-shit on which there was a large portrait of a man, and the words:
“OBAMA ’08”
