Concrete Pillows
In New York City
by Herb Bardavid
This is Harvey
On Amsterdam Avenue near 65th Street, I saw a man slowly walking forward with a shopping cart weighed down by a suitcase and a scattering of possessions. A guitar case hung across his back. His steps were slow and heavy. The cart was crammed with his belongings - everything he owned.
I stopped him and asked if he was homeless. He pointed to the cart, his voice rising with exasperation. "What do you think? Yes. In one month, it will be a thousand days.
I asked him his name. He said it is Harvey, then added, "That's not my real name, but it is close enough." I did not question him further about his name.
Harvey, 60 years old, grew up in Queens, but would not say where in Queens, brushing off the question with a sharp, "That's private."
He told me that he attended a private religious high school and later a private
religious college, but refused to reveal the name of either. Then Harvey had a question for me. Did I believe in a higher power? What religion were my parents? Not me - my parents. When I said they were Jewish, he groaned and said he hated Jews, blaming them for the conflict in Palestine. I decide to change the subject.
Harvey had once worked in a shipping warehouse and shared an apartment in New Jersey with his girlfriend. Life was stable for a while. But then he began to use drugs, heroin. He said it affected his work performance. He said he began to experience conflicts with coworkers, and ultimately, a disagreement with his supervisor led to his termination.
Without an income, he was unable to pay rent, and he was soon evicted from his apartment, and his girlfriend left him. He did not get along with his father and would rather live on the streets than move back in with his parent.
At one point, he asked me, "Do you know what my most important possession is?" I guessed his guitar. He shook his head. "No. My blanket. Winter is coming, and New York gets very cold. I sleep on the subway grate to keep warm. I'd rather do that than go into the shelters - They are the worst."
Harvey has little hope of finding permanent housing. I suggested social service agencies, but he dismissed them as useless.
Harvey faces another season of nights on the concrete pillows of New York City. His thousand days of homelessness will soon pass, and he will continue to walk the streets with his cart and guitar.