Paper Coats

Tony is the fashion district’s favorite homeless man. A few days ago he informed me that he has only been in Manhattan for five years but he’s been walking the streets of the fashion district for seven. It makes sense to him and after a later conversation I thought I shouldn’t question the man’s logic.

I am a magnet for the homeless. I believe it to be directly related to the fact that I am unintimidating physically, usually have a smile on my face, and smoke. Tony approached me outside of my office two days in a row. Both days he was wearing a different outift. He asked me if I thought he was homeless. I told him of course not. He has a secret hiding spot where he keeps his outfits. Homeless he is. He doesn’t ask things of me. Rather, he just wants to chat.

We were talking about the economy and he began mumbling. In the jumble I thought I heard him mention the phrase paper coats. I asked him about it and he looked baffled… Before defining a metaphor we together created.

“Money doesn’t keep you warm,” he said. “My coats keep me warm. Fire does. But I haven’t had a fire in a while. Money right now buys coats and fire. But it won’t always. Where are peoples skills with the world? What can they provide themselves? Your coat, it’s a paper coat.”

He was right, in many ways. In fact, on a superficial level my coat was exactly a paper coat, purchased even for look rather than warmth.

I may go a bit further than Tony’s findings. I am covered in paper coats, not to keep warm, but to buffer from judgment. And it seems I am seeking out many more. This realization is not too late to remedy. Seeking money is often an attempt at avoiding seeking skill.

Tonight I ran into Franklin, my actual homeless friend. I was blurry eyed and going to fetch dinner when I walked right into him. He was carrying bags of cans. That isn’t Franklin’s deal. He is the joke man. Times must be really hard for him as well.

“David, where you been man? I’ve been lighting up your phone all winter.”

“Florida, Frank. I was seeking out peace with my family.”

“Peace,” he actually snickered. “I called you tonight.”

“New phone Franklin and I never answer numbers I don’t know. Plus my voicemail is full.”

“Right. Right. Well take it down.” I did, he looked world weary. Some of the fire in his heart from the summer had been extinguished.

“We could have been paid for that comic round the holidays. My kids didn’t have a holiday.”

“I’m sorry,” I told him. I was.

It doesn’t exactly work like that though.

He shook my hand and then we walked off, me trembling and bleary eyed from this illness; him freezing, drunk and weighed down in aluminum.

And then I thought perhaps unfullfilled dreams were paper coats as well. All winter he called me hoping a comic book dream would feed his kids.

Maybe it could. Today isn’t a day for answers, only musings.

Franklin: My Friend, the Homeless Man

When drunk over the summer I gave a homeless man my mobile number. I spent a great deal of time on my front stoop writing. He became a friend. We would chat day and night. I learned about his ex-wife and ten year old son. He accepted my homosexuality and I accepted that he, well, slept on the streets. People would walk by and see a skinny white boy drinking beer and smoking cigarettes on his front steps with a very tall, dreadlocked, middle aged black homeless male, and smile at us. Kids, having a good time, they’d think. (I think.)

At the time, I don’t know if I thought it was odd giving him my number.

Then I realized he had a mobile phone himself. It is his one life expense. Where he charges it, I have no idea. He called a few times over the summer and it was alright.

On the stoop one evening, Franklin and I developed an idea for a comic book about the projects. A savvy superhero tale. It is something that if I had the time and finances, I would eagerly pursue. It became his livelihood, our conversations and this idea.

A white man started seeing his ex-wife and drama ensued. When he took a hand to her, Franklin came to the rescue. And beat the white man up terribly. Franklin went to jail for a few months, and for some reason, so did his ex-wife. I suspect it has something to do with the fact that the “injured party” is white. I figured this out by poking about the projects and asking where ‘The Funny Man” went. That’s how Frank makes his money, jokes.

Now Franklin is out. I don’t have the gobs of spare money I had over the summer, when we were closest. I also work and play a great deal. Thus, restricting the time we could share. But that doesn’t stop him from calling. I have been fortunate not to run into him on the stoop, as his voicemails are growing demanding. It’s nothing to be afraid of. He isn’t.

I suppose that the moral is, with time and money, friends and stories come from wherever you’d like them to.