Downtown 4 train, between Grand Central and 14th Street-Union Square*. 9:09a.
* For those of you who don't know, the 4/5 train stops between Grand Central Station and Wall Street, where I get off the train, are, in order: Grand Central Station, 14th Street-Union Square, Brooklyn Bridge-City Hall, Fulton Street, and Wall Street.
"Good mornin' New Yawk. Y'all know me - I'm John the Divine. Don't drink, don't smoke. I got fourteen."
The short, animated Black man with a bag in his hand pried open the door to the next car and stepped into the crowd. He moved deftly about the train exactly as he had done the numerous times I had seen him before. As he gave us his spiel--now fourteen years sober after a struggle with drugs and crime, his fight was now against hunger, homelessness, and poverty--he moved gracefully through the subway car, his progress from the door at the far end toward the one behind me equal parts ballet and elevator pitch.
"I got a goodie bag goin' too. I got me a sandwich and a little bottle of orange juice. I'd like to get a couple more things to eat and drink today, so if you got somethin' you can spare, I'd appreciate it. It can be somethin' to eat or drink, or if you can spare a little money, that'd be great too. A dollar, a quarter, a nickel, a dime, even a penny helps. Anybody wanna help out?"
I had seen him on the downtown 4/5 about once a week during my morning commute for as long as I had been taking it. I had even, over the course of several interactions, given him a couple of bucks and a sandwich I'd packed for lunch. His pitch was always exactly the same: the inflection, emphasis, phrasing, timing were rote by now, with slight variations based on the contents of his goodie bag on a given morning (although I imagine he'll have to update to fifteen years sober before too long). He moved quickly, engaging almost everyone on the train individually though unobtrusively. His smile was broad and genuine, though there was pain in his eyes.
I had heard the extended version on occasion as well, in which he speaks extemporaneously of his love for New York and New Yorkers, of his desire for us all to live in harmony with a multitude of faiths, and of the details of his earlier struggles. I don't remember what the details are, but I remember him every time I step onto the downtown 4/5.
I secretly hope I don't run into him. I feel guilty at acknowledging this, but upon further reflection, my hope is not driven by a desire to avoid John the Divine or others similarly situated, but by the vain, foolhardy hope that he has finally found a means of support which obviates his need to ask for help from the morning commuters. Like Chucky in Good Will Hunting, I'll miss seeing him and hearing his cheerful greeting on the train, but it'll be okay because it means he's no longer having to walk the trains and ask for food and money from strangers who largely pretend that the living, breathing, hurting man standing before them and looking at their faces (but whose gaze they will not meet) simply doesn't exist.
He's thin, but not worrisomely so. I worry about him, though. And others. But he's especially memorable to me. Everyone who gives him anything, whether it's a sandwich, a dollar, or a handshake and a kind word (the rarest of all), is thanked profusely and sincerely, and with a compliment tailored to the individual.
"Thank you sir, and that's a nice Duke sweater you've got on. Looks great on you! I hope that basketball team is doing well!"
"Thank you ma'am. You have such a beautiful smile and you seem like such a kind lady. Have a great day!"
From the people in my car, he nets about fifty cents in change, a couple of returned smiles, and a lot of annoyed sighs.
"Anyone else wanna help out? You're all beautiful people and I love you, New Yawk. Be safe and have a blessed day."
I smile as he passes. He pries open the door behind me, having returned my smile, and proceeded to the next car. The car around me returns to its low grumble of muted conversations and grunts. Most people have earbuds in.
A few minutes pass. We stop at 14th Street-Union Square. About ten people get off. An elderly woman gets on. We proceed downtown toward Brooklyn Bridge-City Hall. An older Black man seated to my left raps about and to Donald Trump along with the Public Enemy track "State of the Union" bleeding from his earphones:
Mister "I am the law and you are not":
In fact, I'm God
I got a lot
Mister "these United Breaks takeover":
come over
Orange hair
Fear the comb-over
Here's another scare
Keep them hands in the air
Better not breathe
You dare not dare
Don't say nothin'
Don't think nothin'
Make America Great Again
The middle just love it
When he wanna talk
Walk y'all straight to them ovens
Human beings of color
Yeah we be sufferin' (come on)
The door at the other end of the car slides open. Into the car steps an older man. Judging from his appearance and speech, he is of Italian heritage. His graying hair is combed back and held tight with pomade or some other such thing. He's a little shorter than I am, wearing chinos and a nylon windbreaker, and pulling a rolling suitcase with a cardboard box on top.
"Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen."
This I was not expecting.
"I'm sorry to bother you this morning, but if I could just have your attention for a moment, please. I am part of an organization whose mission is to feed the hungry and the vulnerable. We ride the trains all day giving sandwiches, snacks, and drinks to anyone who needs them. If you are hungry or thirsty, there is no shame in that. Please, have a sandwich and a bottle of water or juice. You don't have to be homeless or elderly to be hungry, and if you want something, please just put your hand up and I'll bring it over to you."
Has he met John the Divine? He can't possibly be more than four train cars from him. I wonder if John the Divine's sandwich and orange juice came from this man, or from someone else. No one takes him up on his offer.
"And one more thing: if you're interested in helping us feed people, we take donations of money and unopened, pre-packaged food and beverage items. If you want to help us out, let me know."
A half-dozen people hand him some money, appearing to total about ten dollars. He also gets a bag of chips, a bottle of water, and a Starbucks canned drink. He gets off the train at Brooklyn Bridge-City Hall.
When the train stops at Fulton Street, I notice John the Divine on the platform. He takes a seat on a bench and sighs. He looks defeated and tired as he reaches into his goodie bag, which does not appear to have anything other than the sandwich and the orange juice he had earlier. He takes a tiny sip of the juice and tightly closes the cap before the train pulls away. A slight smile at the sticky-sweet acidity of the juice is barely discernible on his face.
The city shuffles past, a blur of earbudded podcast subscribers and the inconvenienced. I take it back: I hope to run into John the Divine again, if only so someone on the train at least appears to be in a good mood.
Good luck, brother.
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