What 75 Cents Can Still Get You in the Village: Part Deux
When I'm in the vicinity of NYU, I carry three quarters in the change pocket of my jeans just in case I see Merrit, a homeless guy who squats on Broadway near Astor Place. I clink the change into his cup and just stand next to him while he rants to me about whatever is on his mind for the day. This is a transcript of our last encounter.
I told him that I had never caught his last name so I couldn't add him on Facebook.
"It's Olsen. Yeah, request me as your friend. I'll know who you are."
(I requested to be his friend on Facebook later that night and he sent me back a reply message of "Long time no see" punctuated with the emoticon " :P ".)
I asked him where he checked Facebook.
"Oh, the Internet Cafe," he offhanded, gesturing somewhere west of us.
Merrit is a strange constant in a city of flux. If he's absent from his spot, his claim on the earth, I get a little sad and wonder where he is. I always hope he's getting a lunch or he's found some government housing for himself. But then I'll see him again, cup on the ground, hands in his lap, saying his one magic word.
What it must be like to repeat the same word all day long. The word Merrit says used to be a phrase but I'm sure over time, the boredom of repeating it as three separate words devolved into one mashed word that he uses for his magic purpose. The magic word of guilt and inequality. This word he hopes will dig at class angst, democratic beliefs, Christian Ethics, White Man's Burden, at his definition of deep humanity.
"Sparanchane?" "Sparanchane?"
The one voodoo word that makes the passerby dig into his pocket and drop his left over newspaper or meal money into Merrit's metal cup. The people don't look at him much when they do it. They drop it like an afterthought, like lint, nothing precious. A few, mostly students, look him in the eyes, some who know him say his name.
He's never grateful. He's not asking for alms.
"Yesterday, I only made eight dollars. And the day before I only made 10. It's been the worst three days of the year. The worst three days of the worst two weeks of the year so far."
I stop talking at this point. He wants to talk and I let him. My prolonged presence is usually enough of a prompt.
"The people are getting greedier," he tells me. "Look how they ignore me with their phones and their I-Pods."
I told him that maybe we use I-Pods and cell phones to keep us ignorant, busy, and separate. I asked him if he had noticed this. This question went nowhere. He's never interested in my questions. I'm more of a sounding board. He never even waits to see if I agree.
"Yeah..." This is his obligatory pause then he presses on. "...but they're just greedy. Stuck up, pretentious, acting like their shit don't smell."
"They're why people freak out. Because
they marginalize people. With all their pretentiousness. Then the shooting spree starts and they can't believe they caused it."
He imitates a high pitched high society voice. "Oh, it wasn't us. They're not one of us."
"Like Virginia Tech. They marginalized him."
He says the word marginalized like it's the dirtiest word he's ever heard.
"I bet he asked pretty girls out but he was a little awkward and so no. You should have heard the awful things pretty girls said about him on TV. He was talking back against their cars and their gold jewelry. And they didn't like it."
"The Colombine kids. They were loners too. And who do you think made them loners? I'm sure they didn't want to be. This is why people flip out."
"These people." He starts directing his comments towards the milling crowd. "You're stuck up! You're pretentious! Cell phone! Cell phone! They won't even acknowledge me."
The only change I saw in Merrit since last time was his mustache was now uneven due to some burnt hair. I'm guessing a cigarette mishap unless Merrit has a proclivity for flaming shots of alcohol. He looked a little tired, like he'd had some hard nights but he was less wrapped up, too. I asked him if he was excited for the warm weather. He was saying his word, he ignored me.
"Sparanchane? Sparanchane? These students. Go to this fancy university and they think they're so smart." He looks at me meaningfully, letting me in on something. "They are actually quite dumb."
I ask him what he means. When he talks to them? Does he have an example?"
Pause. "Yeah...I was so happy when Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen went here. And they wouldn't talk to anyone. Suddenly all these stuck up, pretentious people had someone to be pretentious to them. I told the students that. They got angry."
He laughs without any mirth.
"I'd like to see them out here. Put them on their asses. They'd have the same complaints."
"Sparanchane? Sparanchane?"
