So It's Thanksgiving...

Amazingly enough, no food coma. I exercised something resembling self-restraint, and didn't need to pick up my belly and carry it home with me. Of course, now it's 9:45pm and I'm peckish. But no matter -- we have leftovers. So if my hunger gets the better of me, I can help myself.

But I don't want to talk about the meal (good), the company (better than good), or any other traditional Thanksgiving details. The thing that left the biggest impression on me today was a near run-in with a homeless man on the ride out to my mother's Thanksgiving dinner.

Coincidentally, my husband (fine, since he's dispensed with pseudonyms on his website, I'll just call him by his name), Brent, blogged about an encounter with a few homeless men earlier this week. I don't intend for our blogs to serve as point/counterpoint or anything of the sort; I think my writing might suffer by comparison were that the case. It's just inevitable that I'll reference things he thinks about and says, as our lives intertwine pretty inextricably.

Anyway, Brent and I were headed out to Queens from our apartment in Midtown Manhattan. We rode an E train to get there. While en route to the subway station, we actually remarked to one another how dead -- how preternaturally empty -- the City seemed. The subway, however, was anything but.

Unlike the streets above, the subway car we entered -- at the front of the train where, even during weekday rush hours, you can usually find at least a few empty seats -- was packed. All sorts of folks were headed in the same direction we were, which meant that neither of us was able to get a seat of our own.

The ride to my mom's place isn't too long; at worst, it runs maybe 45 minutes. Tonight, we were only going to a stop by my grandmother's apartment, and then my mother was going to pick us up and give her a lift, killing multiple birds with one stone, so the ride was even shorter -- maybe 25-30 minutes. Even so, I wound up spending a very long ten-minute stretch on the subway.

Considering how packed the car was, I was startled when I noticed that, between stops, such that there'd be no incentive to give up one's seat, a slew of people (European tourists, if I had to guess; none of them speaking English) scurried out of their seats and crowded the corner of the car where Brent and I were standing. Because we were both carrying heavy containers of food, for about a half a second, I thought about taking one of the recently-vacated seats. Only half a second. I came to my senses pretty quickly.

While New Yorkers are surprisingly polite about some aspects of subway travel (e.g., giving directions to evidently-lost tourists, and waiting for folks to exit subway cars before entering the cars themselves), they are not so generous-of-heart as to relinquish perfectly good seats en masse for no good reason. So that large an exodus had to be motivated by something inappropriate and unseemly taking place near them. Upon reconsideration, I knew better than to try to grab a seat. I just didn't know what in particular I didn't want to be seated next to, even though I knew without a doubt that I was better off standing.

Brent saw him first; my view of the fellow was largely obstructed by a fellow traveler. There was a middle-aged, hard-living homeless man reclining on the subway seats. He had just dropped his trousers to half-mast (towards what end, I knew not, nor did I care to inquire). Folks were both recoiling in horror and staring at him, like the cliched train wreck off which you cannot pull your eyes. The tourists near me laughed nervously.

I couldn't see much of this man; just enough to see that he didn't seem to be threatening anything more disruptive than airing out his equipment. Eventually, he lit and smoked a half-used cigarette. The stench was overpowering. But he didn't make any fuss, didn't make any advances, and kept to himself, for all the commotion he was causing.

At the next stop, half-sickened by the stench of the cigarette, I convinced Brent to switch cars with me. We moved one car over, and that was that.

Except it wasn't. I can't help but pity the man. I imagine that anyone who has sunk so low as not to car (or not to realize) that he's disrobing on mass transit is in a very bad way indeed. I don't know where he came from, how long he's been like this, or what's going to happen to him. I know that I didn't have the power to help him -- not with Thanksgiving leftovers, and not with spare change. This guy needed Help with a capital "H."

New Yorkers talk about the "Homeless Problem" -- something that is called increasingly to our attention as the weather turns colder. It's that time of year when those who can't find shelter take to the buses and, more often, subways for warmth and a little protection from the elements. This guy we saw tonight? Sure, he's part of the problem. But he was -- he is -- human, too. And I'm totally flummoxed over what to do. I had the good sense not to point and giggle. But my pity won't change anything.

I don't write to propose any grand solutions. I don't have any. I just want to express how useless, how helpless I feel at observing this man tonight in this condition.

I learned recently that my brother's girlfriend has made a habit over the last few years of volunteering on Thanksgiving at the Bowery Mission. I don't know her all that well yet, but I was really favorably impressed to learn that about her. Even though it's important to focus on family during this holiday, she has made a policy of helping folks who need it. Again, given what I said above, I know that cooking or serving a warm meal for some homeless people won't solve the Homeless Problem, either. But it's a lot more admirable, a lot more meaningful, a lot more money-where-your-mouth-is than blogging about it.

I used to make a habit of volunteering with New York Cares. I think it's time to get started being involved again. My family nurtures me. Hell, this City takes good care of me. I ought to give something back.