Girl by Matthew Wexler

     I know I’m in trouble as soon as the cab pulls away. I should have had the driver drop me off at my front door, but that means circling up and around the block and down the cul-de-sac for an extra two dollars. Instead, I get out at the bottom of an enormous flight of poorly lit crumbling stairs that lead up to my apartment building sitting in all its pre-war glory at the tip of Pinehurst Avenue. I usually sprint the flight effortlessly, but the handful of gin and tonics I consumed this evening has dulled my balance. But not my vision.

     Three hooded teenagers stand across the street, bandanas covering their faces. My adrenaline surges and I begin to race up the stairs. I try to scream but my voice gets trapped in my throat and no sound will come out. I can feel them gaining ground and in an instant one of them has a hold of my shoulder, trying to rip off my backpack. I unclip it from the front (thank you, Banana Republic, for designing attack-friendly accessories) and forcefully push it off. I turn around and see the first assailant lose his footing and stumble a few steps. The other two are charging towards me.

     I’ll never make it into my apartment; they’re too close. I turn around and plow through the three of them, back down the stairs towards the 24-hour deli that sits next to the subway entrance. I haven’t seen their faces and rationalize that they won’t risk being seen if they have what they want. I jump down the stairs, three or four at a time, never looking back. When I reach the bottom I run into the middle of the street and towards the store, hoping to be seen by anyone. My legs can’t move nearly as fast as I want them to. They buckle under the pressure and I trip face first, falling into the pavement and sliding several yards on my stomach and hands. I lay face down, afraid to look behind me to see if they’ve followed.

     Cautiously regaining my footing, I stand in the middle of the street. Nobody is in sight. I feel a sharp pain in my right hand, then open my palm, realizing I’ve been clutching my apartment keys the entire time. I never take out my keys until I’m standing in front of my door and am amazed at my own macabre foresight. But all of my personal information is in my backpack. What if they’re stalking my building, waiting for my return?

     Now sitting on the curb outside the deli, shaking and looking like a tweaked out drug addict, I estimate my damage; bleeding hands with bits of embedded gravel, minor knee abrasions, and most frustrating, a jagged rip in the right sleeve of my 1960’s vintage jacket. A shadow blocks my light from the streetlamp.

     “Hey man, you look like shit.” I jerk backwards, startled. It’s Roger, the local homeless guy. I have no idea what his real name is. I think I asked him once, but I have a habit of zoning out quickly in conversations where I may be distracted, so I call him Roger. Tall and wild-eyed, this veritable urban Daniel Boone hangs out near the ‘A’ train at 181st Street, standing hunched, usually with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. If he sees me, or any of the other familiar neighborhood residents coming up from the subway, he will (with much effort) pursue us in hope of garnishing such contraband as another smoke, soda, or occasional lottery ticket.

     “You, too,” I retort.

     “But I always look like shit, man. You get yourself into some trouble?”

     “No, this is pretty typical for me. I usually get my ass kicked every Friday around 4 am. You’re just catching the show for the first time.”

     “I think I saw your co-stars, man, running up Ft. Washington around 186th Street. You got a black bag?”

     “Not anymore.”

     “You call the police?”

     “Not yet. Things don’t seem to be going my way tonight.”

     “Story of my life, man. How ‘bout I walk you home – free of charge?”

     I decide the protection of a gimpy homeless man is better than nothing. As we walk up the stairs, both stumbling a bit, I think about him calling me ‘man’.

     I am a man. I am at the top of the food chain and invincible. I can hunt my food and build a fire, walk on the moon and be elected president. Not tonight, though. Tonight I am barely able to walk home, if not for the help of another man, maybe named Roger, who in spite of being dealt a pretty crappy hand, holds on to a sense of humanity. We stand at the top of the stairs.

     “This is it, man, your home, right? Must be nice. Be safe.”

     “Yeah, man. You too.”

* * *

     It’s late March, about six months after Roger walked me home. It’s been a typical late winter in New York, drizzly and cold, but this morning the sun pushes through formidable clouds and casts the first warm glow of spring. Joyfully donning flip-flops in lieu of my worn boots that went out with today’s trash, I walk my dog, Wilbur. As I turn the corner at 187th Street, I see Roger squatting on an overturned milk-crate.

     The image reminds me of my first apartment after college, when I ceremoniously threw away milk-crates that had held textbooks and homemade drug paraphernalia; it was my first tangible step toward adulthood. The previous tenant, the owner’s recently deceased mother, had furnished her home in early American floral. Happy to escape that wildly botanical sublet, my next apartment was self-decorated ‘IKEA’-style, and after the warrantees expired a year later, each piece of furniture systematically fell apart as if it were made of matchsticks. I am now the proud owner of an overpriced Crate and Barrel sofabed and am expecting the delivery of a handmade steel headboard that cost more than my computer. Roger sits crumpled and collapsed, his stringy gray-brown hair sticking to the sides of his hallowed cheeks, on the only piece of furniture in his makeshift residence. He is not the urban Daniel Boone I remember, but a benevolent Grim Reaper, a moving collection of rickety bones and cracked ashy skin. On several occasions this winter, I’ve observed him from the toastinesss of my living room window and am surprised he’s survived the elements.

     “Nice dog.”

     “Thanks.”

     “I’m not really an animal person,” he states flatly, “but that one looks all right. A mutt?”

     “Yeah, a chihuahua/terrier mix. Total mutt.” Wilbur is unbridled in his affection for the human condition and much like his owner, fascinated with the homeless, crippled, or otherwise challenged. His ears perk up and his corkscrew tail twirls at the speed of a propeller jet. He lunges forward in an enthusiastic leap to procure a dangling piece of Roger’s shoelace.

     “Heel! Heel, Wilbur!” He does not obey, and true to form, takes a moment to look back mockingly, then thrusts forth to gorge on a larger chunk of Roger’s weathered sneaker.

     “Sorry, he’s usually very well behaved.” It’s a lie, but I say it anyway.

     In playful self-defense, Roger brandishes a black baseball cap from his overcoat and swats Wilbur into submission. As he places it on his head with a strange sense of austerity, I read the word ‘GIRL’ emblazoned across the rim in red rhinestones. The sun catches the glass chips at odd angles, framing his face in beams of ruby iridescence.

     “Roger, can I buy you a juice?” I know he’ll counter me with a request for a coke but I feel obligated to suggest a beverage with nutritional content.

     “No, man. Thanks though.” He doesn’t press the issue.

     “How ‘bout a soda then?”

     “Nah,” he stares blankly into the street, “I’m trying to get to Port Authority, man. I don’t think I’m gonna be… I need to get upstate.”

     “What’s upstate?”

     “My daughter. And as of yesterday, my granddaughter. She just had a baby girl. Can you believe that shit? I’m a grandfather, man, and I gotta see my baby girl.”

     I agree to give Roger the $1.50 for a subway token and head back to my apartment, Wilbur in tow.

     Later that evening, as I draw the curtains on the window that overlooks 181st Street, I look out and see Roger perched at his usual spot. He furiously tears away at something in his lap, but the severe shadows from the streetlight and surrounding shop awnings prohibit my clear viewing. One thing is apparent: he is in no rush to get to Port Authority.

* * *

     “Hey man, you know I don’t always ask, but I need to get downtown for-”

     “How much?” I’m running late.

     “$2.75.”

     “How ‘bout I swipe my Metro card to get you on the train?” Roger ignores my offer. “I need to get some tests.”

     “For what?”

     “You know,” he mumbles, “what I told you about before. I need to get my T-cells checked.” His eyes dart to the ground and I follow them. He is wearing my discarded winter boots with the tongues ripped out; his oversized feet crushed in shoes meant for a man half his size.

     Roger has AIDS. What he told me about before. This man has confessed contamination. He is diseased. This is not judgement, this is fact. The cataract of anonymity has protected me so far, but now I contemplate my emotional investment. He is not my responsibility so I shouldn’t feel guilty. I do. I think about him hobbling down the stairs to the subway, frantically trying to catch a train. He doesn’t have the skills to stay medicated. His T-cells may be anywhere from 35 to 3,500 and what difference does it make? That much closer to the whole miserable thing being over. I can list Roger’s attributes as if I’m recording the contents of my backpack: wallet, keys, lesions, soiled pants. I deny him humanity by equating his suffering with materialism. I don’t even know his real name. I stand before this man and wonder how he’s managed to completely screw up his life. Homeless, but not without kin. He has a daughter, now with a daughter of her own. The family who disowned their father or the patriarch who ran away? This man has fallen into despair, except for the girl, his unseen granddaughter driving him forward. I don’t want to think about him. I don’t want to think about anything. I want to exist in an empty mind space and forget about all the Rogers.

* * *

     I am shamefully walking Wilbur before snuggling into bed. I have become complacent about his exercise this winter and he has gained weight. I now have a chubby Chihuahua who can barely hop onto the sofa. He spots Roger, who is huddled in the crevice of a pile of garbage, and waddles over. I dig into my pockets for spare change and pray Wilbur doesn’t decide to mark his territory.

     “Hey, man, that doggy is lookin’ good. Good enough to eat,” he chortles. I laugh uncomfortably.

     “Don’t worry man, you got nothin’ to be afraid of. That dog ain’t Kosher.” He stumbles off the garbage heap and steadies himself to take my offering of change. “That’s what bothers me most, man, is when people are afraid. I’m doin’ nothin’ but tryin’ to stay livin’. We got a lot bigger things to worry about now anyways.” Roger’s prophetic comment intrigues me and we walk a bit together.

     “What should we be worrying about?”

     “You name it, man. Dust in the mail. Bombs in the sky. Worst of all them guys in suits. What’re they called?” He pauses, deep in contemplation, “Oh yeah, C.E.O.’s . Watch out for them, they’re the worst.”

     I think Roger is going to die soon. I’ve seen him take lots of pills, but only when someone is kind enough to buy him a drink to swallow them. I want to grieve for him when the time comes but I understand the time to grieve is now, before he’s buried in an unmarked grave. Grieve for the shattered possibilities of one life. For the man who stands before me.

     What will Roger do tonight? He can walk a frightened man home. Or tousle a dog’s ears. He can invoke a reason for me to look out the window and see what is happening not in the world, but on my own doorstep. That is the purity of my neighbor, Roger.

     “Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep my eye out.”

     “You do that. Always keep an eye out, man. You never know what you might see.”