Donation

Brian did spring cleaning in November to finally eliminate things he no longer needed. When I helped him take the stuff down to the trash it occurred to me that perhaps the Salvation Army would be a better place, since I lived down the street. Then I remembered that the Salvation Army solicited help from Bush to become exempt from hiring gays and lesbians.

“Or I could just give it to the homeless directly.” Clearly I was having a Doriana Sanchez moment (she was my tour mother and boss on tour for years).

“Yeah you could,” Brian said. “There is a shelter over near Times Square somewhere.”

I didn’t articulate my more chance-y brainstorm. I was thinking of taking directly to the homeless people on the streets these bags and their contents. How hard could it be?

Whew did I find out! I parked on 54th and saw immediately an older black man whose deterioration caused him to look more elderly than he probably is. He had on an open jacket to reveal the emaciated frame beneath it. He sat on something I couldn’t make out, his posture still in tact, erect even, the beard approaching Rip Van Winkle length. He would be my first recipient.

I got a phone call and as I stood outside my car with the huge trash bag full of coats (I figured I’d start there), I had second thoughts. I mean it was an unseasonably beautiful night in New York on the cusp of December when an outfit sans scarf and beanie should not have been possible, yet there I was in said drag. I felt ridiculous passing out winter jackets to people who probably didn’t have the luxury to think that far ahead for struggling to survive day to day. Perhaps the revelation was God’s way of telling me that this was a bad idea.

But I defaulted to my first mind and committed my steps toward the man accordingly, before I lost my nerve. When I got to him, I stopped and put the bag down.

“Hello sir.”

He didn’t appear to even look my direction.

“Jacket?” I said, holding one up.

The man rocked back and forth slightly and began to hum in a raspy corroded voice a blues melody I didn’t recognize as anything specific beyond blues. I waited, trying to decide whether I should just leave the jacket or ask about shoes, or maybe investigate more carefully what he was wearing to find out what he was missing…

“I DON’T WANT ANYTHING YOU HAVE!”

The voice came booming, interrupting his song. I was so thrown, I didn’t know what to say or what to do next. I probably should have left the clothes right there for him but decided he may not have been yelling out of temporary insanity or dizzying hunger which would inspire regret after I’d gone. Sure enough, as I made my way down the block, he underlined his conviction.

“TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF!”

Why do I suspect this would not have gone down this way for beautiful, Latina and perpetually-young-looking Dori?

Anyway, the scene at the church, when I made it there, was much different. Beneath the archway of carved Biblical happenings were about eight people, passed out in slumber of a kind one does not imagine feasible on concrete. Their poverty and homelessness suddenly did not feel so dire. In fact I began to feel intrusive. These people had bonded enough with this environment to christen it as theirs, at least for this night.

With concentrated stealth, I pulled jackets out of the bag and placed them strategically across the railing that divided the climbing stairs. The tip of toe, the slight of breath, it wasn’t enough; one of the sleepers awakened and I was instantly apologetic.

He looked right at the bag and then at me. In gestured sign language, I motioned that this was for all of them and to please share it with those still sleeping. He didn’t look too upset but I didn’t wait to find out. I returned to the car and decided one bag of charity was enough; I would pick another night to pass out the rest.

Except that I had old knock-off Timberlands that would probably fit the guy…maybe I should take a few pairs of shoes too? I rummaged through another black trash bag and found four pairs. Red Pumas. Work boots. Cute 8th Street sneakers Brian no doubtedly tired of. I took these to the stairs and prepared to situated them beneath the rail the jackets were slumped over. Except that the jackets were not there; they were already being examined by five people who had become conscious. The bag had been turned upside down to reveal things I didn’t realize were in it – shirts, scarves, a few undergarments. Brian’s stuff was in an open pile for all to partake.

“Pantalones?” One of the men asked.

I nodded and made another trip to the car.

I had no idea Brian was throwing away this many pairs of pants and I was happy right away; my ignorance about the matter saved me from the selfish temptation to see what fit me, as if I don’t need to be getting rid of some of my pants as well.

When I got to back to my car, I saw a scene canvas worthy – two men feet to feet sleeping horizontally across a porch beneath a smaller archway on the side of the church where I was parked. They fit with a symmetry that looked divine, and each side was bordered by a rail for the stairs to the doors. I laid a pair of jeans on each rail without waking these two and decided this is the way I imagined donating to the homeless would go down, with a little bittersweetness for the heart to swallow.

Nevertheless, I will definitely be taking a friend with me to donate the other bags cuz clearly I don't have it completely right...