The Apple and The Vagabond

I had been living in New York for only a few weeks, and everything was new, interesting, strange and sometimes terrifying.  But the patchwork of the city, the sounds, the sights, the differences -- and the lessons I knew I would be learning – all of this won my heart.  I stayed for 15 years.

My first home was in  Washington Heights.  My first subway stop was 181^st and Broadway and my train was the famous A Train.  My first New York neighborhood had a rich history.  Legend had it that in 1629 the Dutch bought Manhattan Island from the Lenape Indians just north of where I lived (check this cool document out here).  In the 1900s Irish immigrants settled there, and in the 1930’s and 40’s, European Jews had moved in to escape Nazi persecution.  In the 1950’s & 60’s, Greek immigrants joined the neighborhood; and then African Americans, Cubans and Puerto Ricans all enriched the next decades with their restaurants and ways of life.  When I lived in Washington Heights in 1990, Dominicans added their music to the mix. That’s one of the things I love about New York – remnants of each one of these cultures were very much alive when this naïve Midwestern “immigrant” arrived with a U-Haul and was dropped off by a generous college friend named Mike.

One of the strongest memories of those first few weeks was the rather long walk to the subway station.  I moved to my new hood in the fall.  Fall brought the boomerang effect of hurricane season, and the new habit of throwing away umbrellas like scrap paper, arriving to work soaking wet, and the lesson that not all shoes survive the concrete jungle. 

 

(The hill on the trek to the subway station)

Nearly every night on the way back to my apartment, I would stop at the butcher and then shop in a small grocery (when your legs are your vehicle, you keep your load light.)  Nearly every night I would pass the same man sitting on the street.   He had wild hair and a cardboard box.  Nearly every night he would greet me with a nod of his head.  I would smile back and say “hello”.  It was deep into the 90’s recession and jobs were tough to find.  I was working as a temp – and had experienced for the first time in my rather privileged life what it meant to have to choose between a $3.79 chocolate bar and a $2.79 per pound chicken.  (The butcher informed me that I wouldn’t survive long if I always chose the chocolate over the chicken.)

So when I passed this man on the street, I wanted to share something with him, and I thought that it should be healthy, good-for-him and something that I could easily afford. 

I gave him an apple.

Nearly every night for about a month, I gave this man an apple and he nodded in thanks.  In fact, he was quite gracious about it.

One night, however, he directly refused.

 “Ma’am, you giith me am appow EVERWY day, buh ladhy, I AIN GOTH NO TEETH!!  How you e’spek me thoo eath THATH??

Sure enough, this man had no teeth whatsoever.  I felt incredibly foolish.  He seemed very passionate about his refusal (and I found myself wondering what happened to all of those apples).  So I looked in my bag and tried to think of something that he could most definitely gum and swallow without hurting himself.

I gave him a banana. 

When I passed him the next night I gave him two bananas (you know, to make up for the gaff with the apples).

I passed him for another couple of weeks and kept giving him a banana.  Once I gave him the whole bunch (you know, to make up for the gaff with the apples.) He always thanked me.  I always said, “You are welcome.”  He had called me Ma’am.  No one had ever called me that before.  I wasn’t old enough to be a Ma’am.

One day he looked irritated.  “Oh dear, he is probably sick of bananas.” I thought to myself.

“Ladhy, I shure dhoo apprethiate the banana, but you gith me one EVERWY day and now I have DIARRHEA!!!”

Oh.  My.  I guessed that made quite a bit of sense.  And would be quite a problem.  (But I was happy he was at least eating the bananas.  He needed the potassium, I was sure.)  I did not know appropriate non-diarrhea-producing, gum-friendly foods that didn’t need a blender.  So I asked, “Well, what could I do for you then that could help?” 

“I wannha go to Mac Donald’s.”  He said with toothless certainty.  McDonald’s was about a mile away.  It was night.  I was tired.  How on earth would he eat a hamburger?  Besides, it was not the safest walk with some strange man who had an aversion to fruit and who’s home was most definitely on the street.  So I asked him to find something in the grocery on that block instead.

“I will buy you one thing.”  I said, in an attempt to keep control of the situation. “What would you like?”

He wandered around for about 5 minutes looking and looking.  He really studied the shelves, measured his need and was thoughtful, I supposed.  The grocery store owner, however, was quite upset with me for bringing him in.  He was not an uncompassionate person, but apparently he was tired of the man trying to steal stuff from this store.

The apple man came out with a box of Hostess Ho Ho’s.

“Seriously?  Ho Ho’s?” 

“I like Ho Ho’s,” he said with a determined smile.  Ho Ho’s it is then.  So, I bought him the familiar box and thought, “Hmm.  I’m not the only one whose natural instinct is to choose chocolate over nutrition.” 

But I didn’t feel at all helpful, and could not emulate my butcher who had knocked some sense into my “budget”.  This guy had no budget. 

I passed him one more time after that and said nothing to him.   And he said nothing to me.  I didn’t know what to say or what to do.  I felt a little powerless. He seemed to feel the same.  We didn't have the skills to relate to each other.   I had also registered the fear in the grocer’s face -- a fear absent in me until I saw the experience in him. 

After that, I never saw my apple vagabond or his box of Ho Ho’s again.      

I used to wonder what happened to him.  I was pretty sure he was not off the street, did not have any dental work done and was still getting inappropriate food items from ignorant strangers.  But who knows.  Unlikely things happen all the time and I hope that his circumstances were bettered in some way.  I’m also quite sure that he does not remember me like I remember him.  It would be very odd if he did.  Because sometimes an apple is just an apple, and a banana is . . . well, it really just doesn’t agree with you.