Christmas 1963

Christmas 1963

He lay at the bottom of the stairs at New York’s Penn Station, hat tipped off onto the pavement beside his head. His fine wool overcoat flared around him like a blanket. His silk tie and white shirt showed him to be an office worker, perhaps a boss, obviously not a bum. Commuters rushed down the steps and circled his outstretched form, never slowing their pace, to speed on their way. I wondered how can people ignore someone passed out at the bottom of a steep staircase. I had a train to catch too, just like them.

            “Mister, are you okay?” I bent down to see his breathing. He opened his bloodshot eyes and fluttered them closed again. A strong smell of alcohol assailed my nostrils as he exhaled.

            “Mister, you can’t lie here. You need help. What’s your name?” No answer, but he sat up. Commuters continued to pass by.

            “Can someone get help for this man?” I said to the indifferent crowd. The man attempted to stand but keeled over again. I reached to steady him.  Suddenly a policeman appeared at my side.

            “Oh Officer, I’m so glad you’re here. I just found him passed out. Can you help him?”  I turned to continue to the train I needed to catch.

            “Just a minute,” the policemen said and held my arm. Then to the man he said. “You got your wallet on you?” The man fumbled in his pocket and produced a leather wallet. “Hmm,” he nodded.

            “Okay, you can go.” The cop said and released my arm. Then I realized, the cop thought I rolled the man. No wonder people walk past and don’t want to get involved. I’m glad someone didn’t mug this guy before I got there. The cop would have thought I did it. This happened on the Friday before Christmas, December 20, 1963. I continued on my way to the Long Island Rail Road station and boarded the train.

   ...to be continued