Before,
I thought there were plenty of spots to take shelter in New York: shops,
subways, doorways, malls, libraries, museums. The city seemed littered with
warm welcoming places but by my second night sleeping rough, those doors
started to slam in my face. Day by day I drifted further into invisibility
until the multitudes passed me blindly.
Everyone
has their own route to the street and mine was booze. It was a slow decay.
First, I didn't even notice it myself. It was a beer after work, then a few
more. Then came the liquid lunches and a quick shot in my morning coffee to
stop the shakes in my hand. As things gathered momentum, I kept telling myself
that I could stop, if I wanted to. By the time I admitted the truth, my job was
hanging by a thread and my marriage was on the rocks. The only sensible thing
to do was to take a few more shots to block out the pain.
The
last months of my old life went by in a haze. When I finally woke up in the
shadow of a dumpster, it was too late for anything. The cold of the concrete
soon seeped into my bones and I began to hate the people who dropped quarters
in my cup. Assholes, one and all. I did manage to make one spot my own; a
tiny arch under an overpass. It smelled of trash but it was dry and protected
from the wind. It was here that I first bumped into Shuffling Joe or more
accurately, Shuffling Joe bumped into me.
It
was a terrible night; the rain was coming down in sheets while I lay cocooned
like a human taco in my alcove. I’d nearly drifted off, with the help of a bottle
of Tequila Rose, when something crashed down on top of me. I lashed out at my
attackers, fighting for my life, or so I thought. The truth is, when you
live on the street, life is cheap and nobody much cares if yours gets
taken or not.
"God-damn-it!
Get the hell off me!" I screamed as I battled my way out of my sleeping
bag. I expected to feel the bite of a blade, or have my brain rattled, but none
of those things happened. Instead, my attacker scrambled away and huddled in
the far corner with a haunted look in his eyes.
"Get
out of here, this is my place!" I yelled and managed to sit up. The
traffic rumbled overhead, the wind made the weeds outside dance, and water
dripped through the cracks in the roof; but my uninvited houseguest was as still
as the grave. He just crouched there, with a box cradled to his chest, and
gazed out into the night.
"Can't
you hear me? GET OUT!" I yelled, but he didn't budge. I thought about
getting up and evicting him, but this guy’s elevator didn't go all the way up.
He was damaged and damaged people are dangerous. Hell, who wasn't dangerous?
The tequila was wearing off and I was feeling less than brave if the truth
was known, so I decided to stay as far away from him as I could. As long as he
stayed in his corner, I'd stay in mine.
"Crazy
as a bag of frogs," I huffed, and pulled my sleeping bag around me once
more. I'm not sure when I fell asleep, but I did, and when I woke the stranger
was gone. I jumped up and checked my stuff. I was sure the guy would have
robbed me, but he hadn't. Well, I guess we can all be wrong about people from
time to time.
A
few days later I saw my visitor again, this time in the food queue at St Mary's
community centre. It's a good spot for a warm meal but he arrived late.
The kitchen was about to close and only the dregs were left in the soup
pot. I watched as he edged up to the counter and stood there. He didn't take a
tray like the rest of us did, he didn't try to pocket a few extra bread rolls
like I had done. He just stood there as the volunteer apologised for the
condition of the liquid being slopped into a bowl. The man just nodded his
thanks and hurried over to an empty table on the far side of the room. I could
tell he was starving by the way he lapped up the first four or five spoon full
of the grease-covered liquid. But something happened, I saw it in his face, it
was as if he had been caught doing something naughty and he slowly straightened
up, forcing himself back from the steaming meal. With a shaky hand, he laid
aside the spoon, then slowly stood. In a blink of an eye, he was gone.
I
wolfed down my own meal. I had a date with a bottle of Wild Turkey that the
Holy Rollers would confiscate if I broke it out here. As I passed my visitor's
empty seat, I spotted his half-full bowl and an untouched bread roll. I checked
nobody was watching as I slipped the roll into my pocket, then made my escape.
He might be a looney-tune, but I wasn't.
That
night, winter kicked in for real and the raindrops were so cold, they pinged as
they landed. He appeared out of the night like a ghost, I nearly thought it was
my double vision playing tricks on me until he moved into my cave and hunkered
down as far from me as he could. The box I'd seen before was with him but
nothing else. How could he have so little? Even on the street, we all have
possessions, this guy didn't even have a blanket to throw over his shoulders.
"So,
your back," I slurred. The ghost said nothing.
"God
damn cuckoo. That's you? Are you a cuckoo going to shove me out of my
nest?" I asked. It made sense in my head. "Well, I'll cuckoo you if
you try it!" I slurred and rolled into the corner, turning my back so I
didn't have to look at him lurking in the shadows. I felt the bread roll press
against my leg. I’d forgotten I had put it there. I took it out and held it in
front of me. There was nothing in my stomach but gut-rot hooch.
"Cuckoo,"
I said to myself and devoured the bread. It was a dog eat dog world and I would
have two if they were on the menu.
After
that night he started coming more regularly, particularly as the winter closed
in on us. No matter what I asked, he never spoke a word to me. I thought he must
be mute, but he sure as hell could hear. I knew he was clever, an educated man,
you can just tell, even though the dirt. The more I got to know him the more I
was convinced he was different to other street-folk. He was still crazy,
bat-shit-crazy, just different crazy than the rest of us. After a while I
christened him Shuffling Joe, because of the way he walked. It was as if the
weight of the world sat on his shoulders.
Over
the years, I got used to having Shuffling Joe about the place, and as hard as
it is to admit, I missed him when he wasn't there. His silence suited me. I
talked enough for the two of us, particularly when my tongue was loosened up
by cheap whisky. We were like an old married couple in the end, right to
the end.
Joe
left this world as he lived. Silently.
I
woke one morning and found him still rolled up in the corner. I got up and
gathered my belongings but Joe didn't move.
"Up
you get," I said, giving the soul of his boot a gentle nudge. His foot
flopped over and settled at an unnatural angle.
"Joe?"
I said, my voice hushed, my heart heavy. I knew he was gone before I laid my
hand against his cheek and found it cool. I sat back and rested my head against
the concrete.
"Guess
I'll never know your name now," I said to my cooling friend and felt
something hard try to climb its way out of my throat. I forced that feeling
back down, right back down, and hammered it home before it got the better of
me. Joe's troubles were over but I had issues of my own. It was a new day and
it wouldn't block itself out! Time to feed the beast and quench the thirst. I
thought about dragging his body outside, where someone else would find it, but
I didn't have the heart. I decided just to give my cave a swerve for a while,
surely someone would find him, eventually. I was about to leave when I noticed
Joe's box, he still had one hand wrapped around it.
"You
don't need this no more, Buddy," I said, pushing his stiffening fingers
from the aged cardboard. The box was secured with string. I pulled one end and
the knot fell loose. I lifted the lid with no idea what I would find. Money, I
hoped. What I did find left me baffled. Inside the box, on a bed of crumpled
newspaper, lay a small pair of pink ballet slippers and nothing else.
"You
really were a screwball, Joe," I said to my recently deceased cave mate. I
was about to toss the box aside but then I remembered how much Joe cared for
it. As stupid as it seemed, I couldn't make my fingers let go. With a roll of
my eyes, I put the lid back on the box and stuffed it in my pack with the rest
of my stuff.
"If
they guys down the mission see you with these," I said to myself,
"you better stay out of the showers for a month, or even a year." I shouldered
my bag and left the cave for the last time. I took a last look at Joe and
wondered who he was. An enigma, wrapped in a mystery, wrapped in rags.
That
night, I got more out of my head than ever before. The booze blacked out
everything and it was only when I found the shoes in my pack the following day did
that I thought about Joe again. I sat on a bench in Central Park and took
out one of the slippers. It wasn't new, I could see the way the inside had been
moulded to fit a delicate foot after hours of practice. Although the Satan
still was lush, it held a smudge here and there. Whoever wore them had a tiny
foot. It hadn't been Joe, that's for sure, but it might have been someone Joe
loved. As I sat there, I knew I had no right to keep these things, they meant
nothing to me but someone else might treasure them. I rummaged through the
papers but there was nothing else in the box. That was when I spotted a
yellowed label on the underside of the lid. It had the name of a shop on
it. Suzette's. The address was in the West Village which
wasn't so far away. With nothing else to do and a hangover to walk off, I
headed south into unfamiliar territory.
I
never felt comfortable in Manhattan, I guess I was never a Manhattan kind of
guy. When I eventually found, Suzette’s, it turned out to be a
brownstone building on an idyllic tree-lined street. It was a dream place to
live, a dream from a life I once knew. I tried the door but it was locked. I
pressed the bell, but nobody came. I was tired so I took a seat on the steps to
rest. About an hour later, a lady in her sixties mounted the step and gave me a
wary look as she swerved around me. She smelled expensive and existed in a
cloud of floating scarves. She put a key in the door and I decided to ask if she
was Suzette. The lady stopped with one hand on the key as she turned to look at
me.
"In
a way, I guess I am. Why do you ask?" she said, her accent sounded like
money, but it wasn't hard. Still, she was far from welcoming. I took out the
box and handed it to her.
"I
have these," I said and handed her the box. She opened the lid, as if she
expected to find a turd inside. When she saw the shoes, her face softened and
she lifted one out with great care.
"I
haven't seen any of these in...well... twenty years or more. Where did you get
them?"
"A
friend of mine had them. I was hoping to get them back to his family if I
could." I said.
"And
what was your friends name," asked the lady, still stroking the side of
one pretty slipper.
"That's
the thing. I don't know." The woman looked at me and I could see all the
questions flitting behind her eyes but she chose not to voice any of them.
Instead, she turned over the lid of the box and gazed at the label which had
got me this far.
"You're
lucky that this is the original box. It has a ledger number on it. Wait here
and I will see what I can find out." The lady unlocked the door and once
she was inside, I heard the security chain rattle. I didn't blame her. I
wouldn't have let me in either. When the door opened again, she had the box and
a piece of paper in her hand.
"I'm
sorry to say but I have very little. It's a girl’s name, Annie Leisman, but the
delivery address is an investment house on Wall St. That’s all I have. The bill
was paid in cash so it's a bit of a dead end." She handed over the
box and the piece of paper and regarded me earnestly. "I hope you get
these to Annie. A lot of love went into these. I'm sure she will want to have
them back."
"Thanks,
Lady," I said, hoisting myself off her stoop. I hadn't got to the sidewalk
when I heard the chain rattle again. Wall St? Could Shuffling Joe and Wall St
have ever gone together? Only one way to find out I guessed and headed south
once more.
It
was a long walk, and by the time I reached the address on the paper, the doors
were locked for the night. So, I panhandled a few bucks from passing people,
got myself a bottle, and spent the night in Battery Park. The next day I went
back to Wall St and the address I had for Anne Leisman. It was a typical
building for this neck of the woods; old stone, new glass and miles of brass. I
got as far as the lobby before a suited guerrilla blocked my way.
"Not
today, Buddy," he said, shepherding me back toward the door.
"I'm
looking for someone," I stammered, trying to stand my ground.
"And
who would you be looking for here?" he said with disdain in his voice.
"A
friend," I said, and it was the wrong thing to say.
"Yea,
right." This time the hand was less shepherding and more shoving.
"I'm
looking for Annie Leisman."
The
guy grabbed me by the jacket and half lifted me out of my shoes, "You're
looking for a slug in the kisser. Nobody here knows no drunken bum, now beat it,"
he said, shoving me through the door. I’ve been thrown out of enough places to
know how to keep my balance. From the sidewalk, I give the guard a one finger
salute and hot-footed it before the cops appeared.
That
night, back in Battery Park, I held shuffling Joe's legacy in one hand and a
bottle of cooking brandy in the other. I was on the verge of giving up when I
felt Joe's ghost watching me. A shiver ran down my spine and I knew I had to do
this thing. I owed it to Joe.
The
next morning, the tattered box and a still full brandy bottle were in my pack
when I returned to the investment house on Wall Street. I ducked my head in the
door but didn't enter. The same suited guard recognised me straight away but
instead of going in I beckoned him over to the door.
"I
told you yesterday to beat it," he said, as he got closer.
"I
know. Just hear me out for a second. I really am looking for someone. I have a
box I got to give them."
"Just
leave it with me, I'll take care of it," said the guy. I knew the kind of
taking care of he would do. Joe's box would be in the first trash can he
passed.
"Can't.
Got to do it myself. Look, I just want to ask that lady at the desk if Annie Leisman
works here. And, I'm stone cold sober," I said hoping the guy would see
that letting me ask the lady would be the quickest way to get rid of me. But it
turns out he was not that kind of guy.
"You
might be sober, but you’re still a bum so, OUT!" he said, spinning me out
the door again.
"God
damn corporate Nazi," I shouted and snapped out a straight-armed salute. I
goose-stepped up and down the steps and could see the guy getting ready to come
knock my block off. His huge muscles were straining under his suit. I turned my
back on him and moved to the pavement. I sat outside the building with my cup
on the ground to collect quarters and asked all the women who went up the
steps, "Are you Annie Leisman?"
Three
days I stayed sober, and three days I stayed at the door calling out for Annie
Leisman. It was looking like a lost cause when a man entering the building
heard me ask if a passing woman if she was Annie Leisman. The man stopped and
came back down the steps. He was forty or so, rich as hell, with the
slicked-back hair of a guy who thought he was the bee’s knees.
"I
knew an Annie Leisman," he said, standing before me.
"Does
she work in there?" I asked, throwing my thumb toward the door behind my
back.
"No,
but her Popps did."
"Popps?"
"Yea,
the Annie I know is eight. Was eight. She's dead now," said the guy and he
genuinely looked sad about that.
"Is
her Popps still here? I got something for him." I said, taking out my box
and holding it out to the guy. He didn't take it he just looked at me as if
trying to make up his mind about me.
"What's
in it?" he asked at last.
"Ballet
slippers, Annie Leisman's ballet slippers."
"Christ!
You got to be kidding me?" The man went pale under his year-round tan and
lowered himself on the step beside me. The shock of whatever he knew stopped
him from realising he was sharing his seat with a bum.
"What's
wrong with that?" I asked, the box still in my hand.
"Charlie
Leisman was a senior partner in this company when I was doing my
internship. The big cheese, you know what I mean. He was married, with one
little girl, Annie, she was eight. One morning, they were all rushing around
the house, getting ready for work and school and such. It can be crazy; I got a
little girl of my own, so I know. Well anyway, Charlie's wife was going to drop
Annie to school and Charlie was coming to work. The all left the house together
but Charlie took a call on his cell. He didn't see Annie get out of the mom's
car and go behind his. He backed out... backed out... and well he just didn't
see her. She’d forgotten her ballet shoes. The next day, Charlie vanished and
took nothing with him except those shoes. That was twenty-five years ago. Never
been heard of since." The man looked down and seemed really broken by the
story. Was it possible that my Joe had been this Charlie Leisman?
I
described Joe and the guy sitting beside me nodded his head, "Sure sounds
like him."
So,
Charlie Leisman, my friend Charlie, was a Wall St guy. You live and learn. I
handed the box to the man sitting beside me and said, "Could you get these
to Mrs Leisman and tell her Charlie never forgave himself for what happened.
He's gone now too, I guess that's all she needs to know."
"She's
dead. Five years ago, breast cancer or so I heard."
"Perhaps
they will fit your little girl so," I said, and shook the hand of the man
who put a name to my friend. I put my bag on my back, the still full bottle of
cooking brandy rubbing against my shoulder blade, and walked away from the
steps. I saw the man lift up the box and take out one of the shoes that lay inside.
I
was on the crosswalk when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was the guy I had
been talking to.
"Hold
up! Have you seen this?" he asked, holding out the box. I look at the pink
shoes and said sure.
"NO!
These!" he said, picking out one of the crumpled pieces of paper.
"The
newspaper?"
"Jesus
Christ! They're not newspaper," he nearly yelled, but then remembered
people were standing around us. He lowered his voice and put his arm around my
shoulder to draw me away from curious ears. In a quieter voice said,
"They're bearer bonds. Hundred-thousand-dollar treasury bearer bonds.
Dozens of them!"
"I
don't understand," I said, gazing into the box.
"Its
money, lots of money. Could be two million or more!"
"I
swear I didn't steal it," I said, throwing up my hands and backing away
from the box. The guy started to laugh.
"I
know you didn't, but you have them, which makes them yours."
"They
were Charlies, not mine."
"Charlie
has nobody left. If they go back into the system they will be gobbled up by
taxes and fees. I think Charlie wanted you to have them. Look, come up to my
office and I will talk you through it. You can't go walking around New York
with millions stuffed in a shoe box."
"Charlie
did."
"I
guess he did," said the guy, patting me on the back. I carefully put the
lid back on the box and followed the guy up the steps to the investment
brokers. I didn't even register the furious look the security guard gave me as
I passed, I was in too much shock. I was a millionaire.
That
was five years ago and now I have a small apartment of my own. I still go down
to St Mary's, but as a volunteer. I miss my friend all the time and often think
the world would be a nicer place if we all talked a little less. I could never
get the hang of calling him Charlie, he would always be Shuffling Joe to me. It
turned out there was 2.9 Million dollars in his box and although the government
took its share, I have more than enough left to see me off to the next world.
At home, my home, I have two things that I will never part with. One is a pair
of pink ballet slippers, sitting in a tatty cardboard box and beside them
stands a still closed bottle of cooking brandy.
I
often think of my friend and wonder if he found peace at last.