The Body of The Story

Unlike NYC Beauty’s city stories, mine are old ~ gray at the roots by now, and just a little bit wrinkled. Still, they abound, and Jennifer has unknowingly inspired me to tell one today. The thing about a good story is that it ages but never dies.

When I was just eighteen back in 1973 I was working on Wall Street at a posh law firm. I was a receptionist, commuting twice daily to and from Staten Island by way of the famous nickel ferry.

By 7:00 a.m. Monday through Friday I was up, showered and dressed (no pants for this lawfirm, it was a suit or dress with heels at the very least). I’d leave my house and walk a block to the nearest bus stop, board the #103 ~ strap-hanging* it all the way to the ferry terminal. The 40 minute ride would get me there just in time to mill through the rush-hour cattle, pick up the New York Daily News - tossing a dime onto the counter - then rush toward the gates that would open at 7:50 to load up the 8:00 boat.

The terminal was decrepit with greenish tiles covering all the walls – the smell of the creosote that coated the pilings was strong and distinct – almost like a mixture of tar, gasoline and oil. It wasn’t, of course, but it smelled that way.

Everyone would shove their way through the gates as the deckhands slowly opened them. Once on the ferry, many of those lucky enough to get seats would cozy up with their Styrofoam coffee cups and daily newspaper. Some would just close their eyes for a much needed twenty-five minute nap. The “standers” would perform a balancing act of sorts, shifting from one leg to the other with coffee cup in one hand, briefcase tucked under the arm and an opened newspaper page held closely to their eyes.

The familiar quiet of the engines being cut was our signal that the boat was beyond Ellis Island and would soon be docking. Everyone would flood to the front of the boat, preparing to make a bee-line for their waiting bus, taxi, subway or bagel stand. From that point forward, for me, it was a hike up to Wall Street. I realized after cramming into subways and buses one too many times that I could get to work just as quickly by walking ~ and that I could take in the sights and sounds of this city I so loved, all along the way.

One very chilly autumn day, while making my way up Broad Street, I noticed some people moving to the side or hopping over something up ahead on the sidewalk. To form the proper visual, let me explain that Broad Street at 8:40 in the morning was a mass of wall to wall people on either side of the street, and yellow cabs or limousines covered the roadway. Walking along the sidewalk was quite similar to standing in line at a busy movie theater, but with everyone on line in constant and swift forward motion.

As I approached the obstacle, I realized people were stepping over or to the side of a street bum curled up close to the curb. There was no avoiding him unless you mowed down a few people in the process. I opted to step over him, as did several others near me. I noticed his clothing was typically disheveled and he had no shoes on. I was annoyed with his presence and just hoped no part of me touched his filthy and stinking body. As everyone else did, I moved on swiftly so as not to be late for work.

My building was located just around the corner from Broad Street at 40 Wall. I couldn’t wait to get indoors and away from the brisk wind. The elevator bay was filled with people, but somehow, I never minded the wait. Our lobby was beautiful. Lush marble covered the walls and floors and everything about the place always looked freshly polished and shiny.

I suppose what made arriving to work so attractive in those days was my nearly two-hour commute, mostly on foot. By the time I got to work, I was tired already ~ yet just facing the day. I was always glad to finally sit. Lunchtime was the highlight of my workday. It was then that you could walk the busy streets again, become part of the hustle and bustle taking in fresh air, and inevitably run into some old or new friend. I would often walk to the old Trinity Church to sit in the graveyard with a dirty-water dog (hot dogs sold off the vending carts). This day, however, was different.

I headed back down Broad Street to meet up with a friend for lunch. She worked at NYSE (Stock Exchange) and we shared the same lunch hour. While walking toward the restaurant we agreed to meet at, I noticed a sea of police cruisers, an ambulance and a couple of fire trucks up ahead.

Often times, movies or TV shows (like Kojak) were being filmed in this area, so I wasn’t concerned in the least, just troubled that I’d have to weave my way around them on my way to get lunch.

People working in the city will generally talk to perfect strangers about “happenings” in the street. It’s just that kind of atmosphere. As I approached the area, I could see the distinctive yellow crime scene tape around a section of sidewalk. I asked two men standing next to me at the crosswalk if they knew what was going on.

When they told me, I stood in disbelief for half a minute, my mouth hanging open.
“Apparently some homeless guy was found laying there dead about an hour ago,” said one of the men, “from what I gather, he was mistaken as a drunken bum just sleeping it off and left there for hours with people stepping over his body.” It was the man I had stepped over on my way to the office.

I did meet up with my friend, but apologized for my lack of appetite and headed back to the office. I felt quietly ashamed. I had stepped over a dead guy and my only thought at the time was “Eww, these bums gross me out.” How could I BE so insensitive? How could thousands of people have been so unfeeling?

I couldn’t get past my guilt and coldness for the remainder of that day. Who was this homeless guy? What was his story? How is it that his life ended – curled in a ball - dead on the street in such a vital, industrious, wealthy and worldly-important area such at Broad and Wall Street in downtown Manhattan?

I didn’t read my newspaper on the way home, nor did I stop for a hot pretzel (another ritual) at the ferry terminal. I never noticed the thousands of other people around me as I made my way from the boat to my bus. I was just happy to get to the security and comfort of my own home at the end of my day and to this very moment ~ I’ll bet that poor man wished he had been able to do the same.

*strap-hanging: standing in the aisle of a bus, train, subway, etc, clinging to the overhead strap for dear life amidst the rush-hour throngs (great way to tone the biceps)