Concrete Pillows
In New York City
by Herb Bardavid
This is Cecil
Today felt like that first warm day of Spring-the one New Yorkers wait for all winter. The city softens. People linger. Strangers make eye contact again. It's a quiet, shared understanding we made it through.
Walking down Broadway near 69th Street, I noticed a man ahead of me moving slowly with a walker. As I closed the distance, I saw the prosthetic device on his left leg. I stepped up beside him, smiled, and said hello-because on a day like this, that's what we do in New York.
He smiled back and lifted the cup in his hand.
No words were needed.
I usually carry singles and five-dollar bills in my back pocket for moments like this. But earlier that day, I had already met three other people in need, and my small bills were gone. I reached into my wallet and handed him the only thing I had left-a ten.
His name is Cecil.
Cecil is 73 years old, born and raised in Harlem, and has never lived anywhere else. He grew up in the projects with his mother and two brothers. He never knew his father.
He told me he loved math as a kid, said he was good at it. There was a hint of pride in his voice. But it didn't last long. He attended Louis D. Brandeis High School on the Upper West Side of New York City. That school would eventually shut down due to poor performance and safety concerns. Ceil didn't make it that far-he dropped out in the 10th grade. That was also when the drinking and drug use began.
Harlem was a hard place to grow up, and his family life was no exception. His oldest brother, as Cecil described it, was a "gangster"-dealing drugs, carrying a gun. One deal went bad. He was shot seven times and killed. His other brother died in his 20s from an overdose of drugs.
He didn't stop. The diabetes progressed, and in 2020, his left leg was amputated.
Cecil got clean. He now attends Narcotics Anonymous meetings regularly. He told me simply, "I don't want to lose the other leg."
When I asked about his future, his answer was less certain. He wants housing; he wants to get off the streets. But the system of social services, applications, and agencies feels overwhelming to him. To complicatedd to navigate.
As I walked away, it was hard not to think that Cecil may be sleeping on the concrete pillows of New York City for a long time to come.
Cecil stayed with his mother in the projects well into adulthood. When she died, he was in his forties and working as a deliveryman. For a time, it was enough to keep him afloat. Ten minutes after completing a delivery, he urgently needed to relieve himself. He stepped behind a tree.
The customer reported him.
He lost his job.
Without income, the rent went unpaid. Within three months, he was evicted. He has been homeless ever since.
When I asked how long it had been, he didn't try to calculate it.
"A long time," he said.
At some point, a doctor warned him he was pre-diabetic. If he didn't stop drinking and using heroin, he would lose control of his health.
