He was standing at the corner of 45th and Lexington, two garbage bags filled with stuff hanging around his neck. He said his name was Jeffrey and that all he wanted was enough money to buy a hamburger. He spoke with a slight British accent and he did, indeed, confirm that he was from the UK. How he ended up growing up in Newark, I didn’t ask.
He’d been homeless for a year and half. He had been living with his girlfriend but he said that she threw him out. He didn’t quite explain why. Unlike many of the homeless people I’ve met, Jeffrey said he actually liked the shelter system—when he could stay there. He had been put out, he said, for causing trouble but didn’t specify what kind. Usually he slept underneath the Triboro Bridge, he said.
He had worked construction and, in fact, here and there he found work. He was trying to save $300 so he could go upstate to find a job picking apples. If he made it upstate, in order to work in an orchard, he would probably sleep outside again.
What would he want people to know about him? “I’m poor. I’m trying to get some dough. I need a job. Tell someone I need a job.”