back to short works
 
Text Box: The scent was a pungent odor blowing into the subway car when the doors opened to invite the night air inside. When the doors slowly closed it held all of the straphangers prisoner until the next train stop. He appeared as if death walked beside him and was whispering in his ear. He probably couldn’t hear its voice because his ears were stuffed with cotton balls which were once white, but now blackened from months of dirt and filth. For some crazy reason, William thought that by doing this he could salvage what was left of his hearing which he lost during a scuffle with another homeless man. Subway riders on the way home from work who were barely able to keep their eyes open, but clutched their personal belongings were jolted awake by the pervasive smell of rotting garbage in their nostrils. He was probably once a member of society: someone who paid taxes, had friends, a family, a job, but now here he was at 2am in the morning reduced to this-every New Yorker’s worst train fear, a homeless crazy black man who had nothing to lose anymore because he had already lost his self-respect. A dented and rusted saxophone was slung over his shoulders and filthy black coat. He wore it like a gunslinger preparing for battle. His pants were two sizes too small for him, and his blackened white socks looked like an extension of his pants. His eyes were the eyes of a man society had forgotten and cast away like yesterday’s garbage. I imagined him before his descent into hell working a regular 9 to 5 job, living paycheck to paycheck as so many of us do these days. We are a generation of debt-ridden consumers and just a missed paycheck away from being homeless. And now, he found himself digging in garbage cans in the dead of winter hoping that someone had tossed away a half-eaten sandwich so that he could have it for dinner. Hunger chewed at his stomach like a crazy dog trying to bite through its rope, and it felt like his insides were being eaten faster than he could feed it. Pedestrians walked by and without even looking at them; he could feel their eyes of disgust at his filthy attire, and the stench that lived in his every step. All they could see was his physical being covered in every unimaginable filth, and had no idea that he was a prideful man who worked hard his entire life. He had never asked anyone for anything his entire life. He had followed the teachings of his parents: if you can’t afford it then you don’t need it. Circumstances beyond his control have led him to Text Box: this alleyway he sits in now eating from a garbage can. Everywhere he turned to for help there was more red tape and more forms to fill out and with no money coming in, unemployment running out, he lost all his possessions and slowly lost his faith and dignity. Friends he had helped through the years turned their backs on him, and soon he found himself living in the streets, sleeping in subway cars to avoid the cold. The only thing he now owned in this cold miserable world was his saxophone. He was an avid player and displayed a passion for music, but his passion far outweighed his talent and he settled for being a student and not a professional. He recognized the commuters’ indifference now as fear mixed with apathy. At first he mistakenly thought that they felt sorry for him, but one day in the Grand Central restroom he caught a glimpse of himself and looked around to see this filthy behemoth of a man standing behind him. There was no one there, and the same face stared back at him when he turned back to look into the mirror. This face would scare me too he thought to himself, and in that moment The Wacko Saxophone Player was born. He would do whatever it took to survive short of killing or raping everything else was fair game. He was one of the thousands of forgotten people in the city, and he knew if they could all somehow be picked up and deposited and left for dead it would have happened long ago. “Good Evening ladies and gentleman welcome to The Subway. I am your saxophone player for the evening, and by my request I will play Amazing Grace for your listening pleasure,” the remaining passengers who were still asleep stirred to find an imposing homeless black man armed with a saxophone. Relief was written all over their faces that on this night they had been spared by death. So happy they all were that in that moment if William had asked them for a $1 each they would have willingly given it to him without a second hesitation, but William had no way of knowing that his entire act on this night was unnecessary. “Through no fault of my own,” William continued, “I am homeless and in need of your assistance.” William looked slowly around to see if anyone would reach into their pockets or purses to lend him a hand. Nobody moved. The roof of the subway car suddenly became an intriguing sight to everyone as they tried to avoid his stare, and Text Box: not be the first person he physically approached for money. “I guess we’re gonna have to do this thing the hard way,” his voice boomed above the track noises rumbling below.” He whipped his saxophone around from behind his back, clumsily started to blow into it, and an ear piercing shrill sound emitted from the saxophone vibrating through all of the passengers’ eardrums thus causing them to feel as if their heads were bleeding from the inside. William knew that the next car was locked and that they had no way of escape until the train pulled into 86th Street subway station which would be in about another three minutes. The odds were against them being able to sustain the assault his saxophone screeching was imposing on their eardrums. They had no idea what hardship and daily suffering entailed, William would think to himself every night he did his one man routine to a captive audience. When you have no other choice you will do whatever you need to do in order to survive, William would rationalize just before he would rain his torment down on them. He always made sure that there weren’t any children or pregnant women in his audience before he played. Even the homeless have to live by a code of ethics he chuckled to no one in particular. Images of the filth he had eaten for the day to stave off hunger made William’s stomach regurgitate on the inside. He was a human being living worse than a dog on the streets. At least a dog belonged outside and had no problem eating and living in the bowels of New York’s worst hell holes. He might as well have been an invisible person because no one looked at him or offered him a hello. Once in a while without him having to beg for his daily bread someone would take pity on him and throw him a dollar or some loose change. They always avoided touching his filthy hands for fear his dirt was contagious. Everywhere he turned no one wanted him around. Many a night, William thought about ending it all before the hunger or the winter cold made the decision for him. Every time the thought of suicide would invade his mind whispering death in his ears; he would fight the urges for the peace it offered only because he longed to see his daughter one more time. He knew where she lived, but embarrassment and shame about his present life situation kept him away. No little girl needs to see her Daddy living like a bum. There were nights when the only thing William tasted were the tears that streamed down his face. How did my life turn out this way? Text Box: Silence was always his answer. Not knowing if they could survive another assault on their eardrums, the commuters were ready to hand William any change they could find. He took off his rat bitten wool hat that was stuffed with toilet paper to plug up all the holes. He was about to make the rounds to collect his tips, and that’s when he saw the little girl about his daughter’s age sleeping besides her mother. He had missed seeing her because she was under her mother’s winter coat. She was about five years old and stared at William without in any fear in her eyes. “Why is that man making all that noise,” she was pointing at William. Her mother tried to shut her up fearful that William might go berserk and kill them both. She whispered something to the little girl, but her curiosity was awakened, and she had to have answers. “Mister, are you hungry?” William not knowing how to react to this bold little girl stood there quiet with his saxophone dangling limply at his side. She was the first person to call him Mister in years. A little girl was showing him the respect of his age when others failed to do so daily. The little girl broke free from her mother’s grasp and handed William a sandwich. She didn’t try not to touch him, but William made sure to avoid sullying her with his filthy, dirt encrusted fingers. Finally he spoke, “Thank you,” was all he could mutter. He was ashamed that he had been reduced to this, and this little girl, a girl who could have been his daughter had witnessed him at his worst. In that shame, William had also experienced compassion and for a brief moment his dignity had been restored by the innocent words of a child. The train pulled into 86th street subway station, and the commuters scrambled for the door in search of a breath of fresh air. The little girl was skipping up and down as if she was jumping rope, and her braids were being flung from side to side. Before she could disappear around the corner she turned and smiled at William. He did something he couldn’t remember doing in years. He smiled back at her and then she was gone. Dean Jean-Pierre 10-10-05 3:36 pm