By Carol Tannenhauser
Walking up Amsterdam Avenue recently, I came upon a man with salt-and-pepper hair to his shoulders and a bushy beard to match. Wearing filthy army fatigues, he was emptying a New York City trash basket into a large, black, plastic garbage bag.
My first thought was that he was looking for bottles; my second that he was planning to steal the basket and sell it for scrap. But then he put it down and took the half-full garbage bag across the street to the next corner and started the process again.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Do you mind if I ask what you’re doing?”
“Cleaning up the neighborhood,” he answered.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because I live here,” he said. “It’s my neighborhood.”
“Where do you live?” I asked.
“Outside,” he answered. “America doesn’t like poor people. I lived outside in Japan for awhile and they have thousands of public bathrooms. Here they get mad at people who have nowhere else to go.”
“Can I give you something?” I asked.
“No,” he answered.
“Well – thank you,” I said.
We stared at each other. I noticed that his eyes were blue and he was younger than I had originally thought – and that he seemed perfectly sane and sober.
“I have to stay productive,” he said.
He held out his fist, stained by grime, and I bumped it with mine.
“Thank you, again,” I said, and continued up Amsterdam.
