Profile Piece #1: Merrit

I'm in a journalism class right now with Lawrence Weschler and this is a profile/interview I did for his class. I'm exploring some freelance journalism on the side. This is a first draft as are most things I post on here but I hope you enjoy. If he lets me take a picture of him, I'll post that as well. Here's a few older and a few modern pictures of Greenwich Village, where I spend a lot of my time and where I interviewed this homeless man, Merrit.



What 75 Cents Can Still Get You in the Village

I’d seen him, passed him four dozen times at least. He’s always sitting, either on his blanket or beneath it, depending on the temperature. Sometimes I see him engaged in conversation with a student, though I’ve only ever seen one mouth moving. His chest length beard and reclining posture give him this Zen Master, Mountain Guru aura. Even when I’ve observed him talking, he doesn’t gesture too much, doesn’t shift his position, as if he’s tired from shouldering the world’s weight.

I stepped under some eaves on a rainy Tuesday evening I’d forgotten my umbrella. I didn’t even realize where I was, right on his turf, until I heard his voice at my elbow. Of course, I had change I told him and digging through the bottom of my bag where I usually throw it, I found seventy-five cents which I clinked into his can. He wasn’t in his usual spot but instead was sitting just across from it under the eaves to avoid the rain.

“You know,” he said, “you’re the first person to stop in a while. I haven’t made very much money today. Too many people. The more people on the street, the less I make. Do you know why that is?”

I never got to answer. It was obviously rhetorical.

“Diffusion of responsibility. See, I’m studying some psychology, some students are teaching me some psychology. The more people on the street, the more they all feel someone else will take care of me. So I get nothing usually around these times.”

“Hey, can someone help me out?” he yelled at the pedestrians hurrying through the storm.

“See? Nobody. It’s all these students you know. All these NYU students who think they’re so smart and think they’re socially conscious because they go to this school with its liberal values. They think they’re gonna help people but they ignore me. There’s someone to help right here. And they just walk on by.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m learning some psychology. That’s where I got that diffusion of responsibility thing. And lots of other stuff. Chemistry and Biology. Most of my friends are students.”

“But these people on the street don’t know. They think that by giving their money to homeless shelters or charities, they’re helping me. That they’re solving the problem. But they’re not helping me. I don’t get any of that money because I don’t go to homeless shelters.”

“Why? Because they’re dangerous. They rob from you there. You can get hurt. I’d rather be here.”

He looked out at the wet traffic and squinted his eyes. He pointed to the daily section of earth he stakes for himself.

“I usually sit there. I averaged it out. I make about 26 dollars and 13 cents a day there. That’s not much you know. Not enough to live on. You know these stuck up NYU students, if they just gave me more, I’d be able to save some money. If I just made 50 dollars a day, I could put some away. For rainy days. Like today! I’d have that money for today.”
“These people don’t know what being hungry is. Not eating for 32 hours, that’s hungry. They don’t know.”

I remarked there’s a difference between hunger and being hungry.
“Sure there is,” he said, leaning back against the window, “and I know what that is. Ok, not like those people in Somalia. There’s different levels. I don’t get what that kind of hunger is. But yeah…”

I apologized and said I had a reading to go to. We exchanged names. He ignored my mention of leaving and talked for a few more minutes.

“Yeah, sometimes, I go on dates. I go on dates with some pretty hot chicks. Totally platonic. Everyone wonders why I get to go out on these dates with these hot girls, and man, I try to tell them it’s nothing. We’re just friends.”

“You have to go, huh? Well, I’m on Facebook. Look me up. Send me a friend request. I’ll know who you are. I check it every night.”