position was clear—I’ll be supportive of you, as helpful as I can, but I live a life of professional responsibilities and I really don’t like to talk about my personal history. As to some of the specifics, he had reading and writing to do the nights they weren’t together, and his closest friend was Antoine Burris. Perhaps one day he would open up, she presumed, or perhaps this was the deal—he was reserved, remote. This still made him more interesting to her than the puppy males with their tongues hanging out of their mouths, panting about themselves. He was intelligent about a truly unusual area of life, and there was the sex. It was so extraordinary, every time, she wondered if this could become like a drug addiction, and counseled herself to keep a balance, to always have the work, now the book, to center herself so that she wasn’t just treading water waiting for him to show up.
“The man in the box” Ronnie alluded to as a whimsical possibility for her guest list was a derelict who set up quarters on Broadway and 111th Street in large appliance-sized cardboard boxes, and when rain destroyed the boxes, he sometimes cobbled together his living quarters out of multiple smaller containers. Ronnie guessed he was in his late sixties. He had unkempt graying black hair, a straggly full beard, was gaunt, six feet tall, usually dressed in a flannel shirt too large for him, baggy corduroy pants, and sneakers. In colder weather he wore an army fatigue jacket. He had a rather fine nose and pale brown eyes—a distant look in those eyes suggesting the possibility of another life he had lived, the facts of which would have been impossible to ascertain. He never spoke. He sat in his box staring at people in the street, as if studying them for a book he was going to write. A bowl was always in front of the box for people to give money and when they did he never acknowledged them, just as he never spoke. He didn’t take up a position in front of a store, rather on the sidewalk along 111th Street so vendors didn’t have a complaint he was blocking store traffic. And his silence meant passersby couldn’t complain he was insulting them or invading their space. He sat for hours, auditing the movement of people. Periodically, he was swept from view by the police based on the current mood in the department regarding the homeless. Sometimes he slept in his box and was there in the morning when Ronnie or Nancy went out to buy a newspaper. He would stare as they passed with the same flat expression he maintained for everyone. Once, Ronnie was passing when the police took him into a patrol car. He displayed no anger, no resentment. Intermittently the city authorities advocated not giving money to panhandlers on streets and subways, that there were social services for such people, and the giver would only be enabling their drug or alcohol habits. The man in the box seemed to be mentally ill, not an addict or an alcoholic, or that was the rationale Ronny and Nancy settled on, and they would sometimes drop a quarter or two in his bowl when they passed. They wanted to believe he used the money for food. Ronnie adopted her own policy. If she happened to be thinking about work or her career at the moment she passed him, given the disparities in their lives, and for good luck, she dropped a little extra in his bowl; a dollar, or all her loose change.
A couple of days after Richard left town Ronnie was walking to the supermarket and the man was in his place on 111th Street in one of his cobbled-together setups, a couple of cartons that once contained television sets. She was thinking about the book when she saw him, which qualified this to be a bonus contribution, and she took two dollars from her wallet to place in his bowl. He stared at her, not with his usual flat expression. He furrowed his brow and quickly scrambled deeper into the box. Under normal circumstances encounters with the man were odd New York exchanges; out of charity, or
“The man in the box” Ronnie alluded to as a whimsical possibility for her guest list was a derelict who set up quarters on Broadway and 111th Street in large appliance-sized cardboard boxes, and when rain destroyed the boxes, he sometimes cobbled together his living quarters out of multiple smaller containers. Ronnie guessed he was in his late sixties. He had unkempt graying black hair, a straggly full beard, was gaunt, six feet tall, usually dressed in a flannel shirt too large for him, baggy corduroy pants, and sneakers. In colder weather he wore an army fatigue jacket. He had a rather fine nose and pale brown eyes—a distant look in those eyes suggesting the possibility of another life he had lived, the facts of which would have been impossible to ascertain. He never spoke. He sat in his box staring at people in the street, as if studying them for a book he was going to write. A bowl was always in front of the box for people to give money and when they did he never acknowledged them, just as he never spoke. He didn’t take up a position in front of a store, rather on the sidewalk along 111th Street so vendors didn’t have a complaint he was blocking store traffic. And his silence meant passersby couldn’t complain he was insulting them or invading their space. He sat for hours, auditing the movement of people. Periodically, he was swept from view by the police based on the current mood in the department regarding the homeless. Sometimes he slept in his box and was there in the morning when Ronnie or Nancy went out to buy a newspaper. He would stare as they passed with the same flat expression he maintained for everyone. Once, Ronnie was passing when the police took him into a patrol car. He displayed no anger, no resentment. Intermittently the city authorities advocated not giving money to panhandlers on streets and subways, that there were social services for such people, and the giver would only be enabling their drug or alcohol habits. The man in the box seemed to be mentally ill, not an addict or an alcoholic, or that was the rationale Ronny and Nancy settled on, and they would sometimes drop a quarter or two in his bowl when they passed. They wanted to believe he used the money for food. Ronnie adopted her own policy. If she happened to be thinking about work or her career at the moment she passed him, given the disparities in their lives, and for good luck, she dropped a little extra in his bowl; a dollar, or all her loose change.
A couple of days after Richard left town Ronnie was walking to the supermarket and the man was in his place on 111th Street in one of his cobbled-together setups, a couple of cartons that once contained television sets. She was thinking about the book when she saw him, which qualified this to be a bonus contribution, and she took two dollars from her wallet to place in his bowl. He stared at her, not with his usual flat expression. He furrowed his brow and quickly scrambled deeper into the box. Under normal circumstances encounters with the man were odd New York exchanges; out of charity, or
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