camera: Nikon D60, 18-35mm Nikkor VR lens
Columbus Circle
Riverside Park
Battery Park
Bryant Park
3.07.2009
3.06.2009
the strangers who beg
His name is Ralphie. Or Alfie. His speedy, monotonous speech makes it hard for me to tell. Ralphie always hurriedly enters the L train car, lugging in a big black sack and a separate bag for his pile of newspapers. Selling newspapers is his business. He is also homeless.
The routine is the same each time, lines virtually rehearsed, machine-like with his delivery. He introduces himself hastily, seemingly aware of how quickly he loses customers. He only has several minutes until the next train stop. He must know his papers are a tough sell. For a city whose residents still can't seem to function properly without a morning paper, charging for news that had freely circulated its way into the hands of jittery, java-induced New Yorkers many hours beforehand sounds like a tough sell to me.
But this is his 'business', and he keeps at his routine. He also asks for food, or clothes even, if no one cares to buy a paper. One night he hinted on wanting a pair of clean socks. A passenger handed him a powerbar instead, and she seemed pleased enough with herself after doing so.
Ralphie is a regular on my train rides home. I only see him on the L, and only at night, and only selling papers. I also never see anyone buy anything, from him. How far down the Brooklyn-bound L Train he goes, I do not know.
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I do not always give money. Most times, I'm fumbling for change I do not have. And whatever I do have, I hope they're quarters. I need those quarters for laundry.
Several times on the train, I've heard beggars qualify their own begging, making sure to let us passengers understand that their act of asking is a last resort out of desperation. That it is never a choice they want to make.
Several times on the train, I've seen folks who have had no choice but to beg with the one hand they had left, for the other was severed, or gone entirely, or walk the length of the train car on one leg because they had a stump in place for the other.
On these nights, I give. And hope, a little harder.
The routine is the same each time, lines virtually rehearsed, machine-like with his delivery. He introduces himself hastily, seemingly aware of how quickly he loses customers. He only has several minutes until the next train stop. He must know his papers are a tough sell. For a city whose residents still can't seem to function properly without a morning paper, charging for news that had freely circulated its way into the hands of jittery, java-induced New Yorkers many hours beforehand sounds like a tough sell to me.
But this is his 'business', and he keeps at his routine. He also asks for food, or clothes even, if no one cares to buy a paper. One night he hinted on wanting a pair of clean socks. A passenger handed him a powerbar instead, and she seemed pleased enough with herself after doing so.
Ralphie is a regular on my train rides home. I only see him on the L, and only at night, and only selling papers. I also never see anyone buy anything, from him. How far down the Brooklyn-bound L Train he goes, I do not know.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I do not always give money. Most times, I'm fumbling for change I do not have. And whatever I do have, I hope they're quarters. I need those quarters for laundry.
Several times on the train, I've heard beggars qualify their own begging, making sure to let us passengers understand that their act of asking is a last resort out of desperation. That it is never a choice they want to make.
Several times on the train, I've seen folks who have had no choice but to beg with the one hand they had left, for the other was severed, or gone entirely, or walk the length of the train car on one leg because they had a stump in place for the other.
On these nights, I give. And hope, a little harder.
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