There is a homeless person I am fascinated with. It is neither man nor woman, but a meticulous blend of the two. I shall call this person Terry (a nice, dual sex name). Terry wears baggy grey sweatpants with a pair of platform flip flops in a festive, hawaiian print. Terry also sports an appropriately asexual windbreaker that cinches at the waist and a pair of grandmotherly earrings. Terry's long, brownish-grey hair is is swept up French Twist style and held in place by one pink and one blue hair clip. Appropos. Terry always wears headphones attached to an old school Walkman, and the headpiece rests on the back of his (for I am almost certain Terry is a male) neck. Terry's hands are mannish and marked on the knuckles with with crisp, black hairs. They are fastidiously polished a choral pink, which perfectly matches the lipstick that strays ever so slightly outside the lines.
I see Terry all the time. Terry sits on 57th Street between 6th and 7th on two large, zippered and clean suitcases. I see him on my way to work.
Terry doesn't know this, but I like him. I would like to sit next to Terry on 57th Street and find out why he is sitting on two suitcase, an empty Starbucks cup silently soliciting in his hand.
Terry has many good qualities: Unfailingly polite, a warm smile, attention to detail and a personal, quite stylish flair. Yet, Terry, I am surmising, has no place to live.
What is the difference between me and Terry? How many dominoes have to fall before you or I are dragging our heavy suitcases into a Starbucks, keeping warm and dry on a rainy, miserable day?
I just glanced at Terry and he was gazing out the window, looking positively girlish, chin in hand, pen clasped between two well-painted yet dirty fingers.
Yes, I like Terry. I hope one day to have the courage to ask, "is this seat taken?", and then ask, "how are things?"
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