Concrete Pillows
In New York City
by Herb Bardavid
This is Fredo
Fredo is sixty-four years old. He was born in the Jim Crow South of South Carolina, an only child whose parents fled north when he was seven, hoping to outrun the cruelty of segregation. They settled in Coxsackie, New York —a small Hudson Valley town better known for its prison than for opportunity. His father found work as a janitor in a nearby office building, and his mother cleaned other people's houses. They built a modest life.
When I met Fredo, he was sitting on a cold metal bench, his shoulders hunched against the wind, quietly asking strangers for change. There was no sign, no pleading expression-just the quiet endurance of someone accustomed to being invisible. When I asked if he was homeless, he looked up and said, "Since 1985."
Forty years.
Forty years of winters and summers, of police shooing him from stoops and sidewalks.
I asked how he managed to survive for so long. His answer was a single word -"Society." When I pressed him to explain, he smiled faintly. "Society takes care of me, " he said. "People are kind."
He told me that although he doesn't like the shelters, he sleeps most nights at the men's shelter in the Bronx. He owns nothing-no possessions, no identification papers, nothing that could be stolen. "There's freedom in that," he said.
After his parents passed away, Fredo's world in Coxsackie unraveled. He never worked, never learned to navigate life on his own. When I asked how far he went in school, he shrugged. "Didn't like it, so I didn't go."
He came to New York City, but wasn't sure why. He began using Cocaine, then crack. Two prison sentences followed: one for possession, one for selling. Each time, two and half years behind bars.
But Fredo told me he stopped using drugs five years ago. He no longer drinks, either.
That morning, someone bought him breakfast, but it was now 4:00 in the afternoon, and he didn't have enough money for food. I walked to a nearby sandwich shop and bought him a roast beef sandwich.
When I asked about his future, Fredo smiled at me and said, "Same as my present." He does not see any chance for improvement.
Even after 40 years of homelessness, Fredo still smiles and lives each day, despite little hope for change.
It appears his future is the concrete pillows of New York City.