Homeless People

One of the most interesting things I've noticed about living in a big city is the Homeless phenomenon, aka the "Bum" phenomenon. I don't mean people without homes, or people "in between" things; you can find these people just about anywhere. I mean the really, really, really odd, dirty, smelly, probably insane, possibly belligerent people that sleep between copies of The Onion and The New York Times outside of Dunkin' Donuts. Don't get me wrong; this is not Bumfights propaganda, nor is it a misanthropic rant. There are , in fact, many decent, dignified homeless people who humbly request that you help them out by quietly sitting beside a quaint cardboard sign (for all you who think this marriage of dignity and overt solicitation is a contradiction, lay off the late-period Nietzsche). That aside, the stinky, loud, nothing-to-lose crazies are the ones that fascinate me.
Just the other night, Jess and I were heading home from Greenwhich Village after a pleasant evening full of art and Indian food when we slowly became aware that one of "them" was on the train we were on. Having lived in the city for some time now, I've learned the art of avoiding "that" train car. As the train comes to a stop, you casually watch as the cars pass, noting the passenger density, gaging if you'll be able to get a seat or not. Then, you see a car that is half-empty. This train has a bum on it, so you avoid it. Sometimes, however, the trains are so busy you just can't tell, and you don't notice you're on a train with one of "them" until the doors are closed and you've opened your book. Anyway, this particular person, a man claiming to be a veteran, was walking up and down the car, shouting both coherent things, like "Easter Sunday!" and "It is better to give than to receive!", and incoherent things, like "Muthafuher" and "Take a plane!!!" He started on one side of the car and I was on the other. Eventually he made his way to my side and stationed himself diagonally across from me. I buried my nose deeper in Mann. He let loose a pair of thick loogies which made an ungodly sound on the soiled subway floor. He then resumed shouting and while he was jingling his panhandle, some coins bounced out. He marched forward to pick them up, bellowing to a kid in a pair of New Balances to "Move, Punk!" Once he had collected his lost coins, he left that side of the train feeling sufficiently guilty and marched to the other side, whereupon he threatened some female passengers thus: "I'm-a cut you up!" Not clear on the sincerity or really the direction of this threat, Jess and I switched cars at the next stop.
Another time Jess and I were walking down 5th Ave in Park Slope and we were passing a bank. A terribly loud, bulging, shabby, oldish woman with stringy brown hair and beady black eyes was hollering at people not to help her, but simply to give her money. As I walked passed, on cue, she yelled, "Give me some money." Slightly shaken by her hoarse, dire voice, Jess and I continued walking only to hear her yell, "88, feed me!" I was assuming she was talking to the guy in the Michael Irvin jersey, so I kept walking. To my surprise, I found myself terribly angry that this woman had the nerve to do what she was doing - that is, making people painfully aware of their advantages in life. Not only that, but of what they are wearing or how they look (she called me "Handsome"). Jess asked rhetorically why this woman wasn't outside a bank in the Upper West Side of Manhatten or some other area where there's a lot more wealth. I say rhetorical because the answer is readily obvious; someone would complain and she would be promptly removed. Then she would be dumped in Brooklyn, where she can solicit freely because a.) no one has enough free mental space to care enough that someone is yelling at them and b.) the police have far more important things to do - like gangbusting and prostitute-ring-ousting - than to remove an obnoxious beggar. How is it that this person exists? Is she just crazy? Or is it a symptom of a much larger problem?
Between these two encounters, I've come to a loose, metaphoric conclusion. You know how when you make sugar cookies, you roll out the dough, and then you use various shapes to cut out your cookies? Well, people like me or you or the businessman on 6th or the hooligan on Franklin are all defined shapes. The "others" or, for the lack of a more accurate term, bums, are the extra dough that isn't quite a shape. It has potential to be made back into a shape, but there's always a shapeless remainder. Insofar as this makes any sense, these people become foils, or mirrors. They show us what is wrong with the whole baking process, and I don't blame them for hating me for not giving them money.
Perhaps I've been too hard on these people. Perhaps they have severe mental problems and are really just tragically out of touch with reality and I should be sad that no one has been able to or chosen to help them in the necessary ways. I believe this could be the case. But then I think of this other homeless man I've seen several times all over the city who pushes around a shopping cart full of his effects. Dressed like an urban monk of some kind, he curls up on two-seaters beside car-to-car passageways with his cart parked by his side. Swilling an unlabeled two-liter bottle, he doesn't say anything, and doesn't smell. He settles in and closes his eyes. As far as I'm concerned, either this man is nuts, or he knows something I've yet to learn.