1/2 Donut -- the first of several connected stories

I no longer have my second job which allowed me to survive.  My main job doesn’t pay enough if it’s the only salary in the house though I get medical benefits from there.  So my evenings are freed up, and I am available for paid comedy and acting gigs, proofreading on a freelance basis (have lots of experience), and posing for those who draw and/or paint.  Photographers, on a case-by-case basis.  Please keep me in mind.

So though I’ve had more free time, I have significantly less money.  Either way, it’s not easy. 

There were several times* a few weeks back that I felt the universe was letting me know to have faith.  One morning I went to Arthur Avenue (the Bronx’s “Little Italy”) to deposit two small checks I received in the mail that were supposed to be directly deposited but weren’t.  I went before work because I couldn’t risk a check I sent out to bounce.  I needed to hand it to a teller during banking hours so it would get credited right away.  I assumed the bank opened at 8am but was wrong.  I had to wait until 9am. 

I sat in a small park and had my coffee and donut.  I often eat small amounts many times a day.  At half a donut I was full.  I figured I’d take it home. 

It was obvious that a suffering economy has found its way to that area which once seemed to be able to stay above a lot of the city’s problems.  There were homeless people in the park.  One man was looking in the garbage for food.  I don’t know how our society has become numb to this.  I haven’t.  When I was growing up, rents were do-able even for poor working people.  We may have crammed a lot of people into the apartment, but it beat sleeping outside.  The occasional person who was homeless was referred to as a bum.  They often were napping on a park bench.  It was assumed alcoholism was the cause.  The churches and the Salvation Army were able to care for such folks.  It wasn’t a class of homeless people.  The struggling public wasn’t asked for money all day.  I remember as a kid reading about homeless people in Ireland.  By the time I was halfway through college, homelessness was everywhere in NYC.  The train cars smelled of unbathed bodies.  The homeless were blamed for their situation.  Those who cause this do not ride the trains and see the consequences of their deeds.

On my way out of the park, I went over to the man searching the garbage and offered him my little paper bag.  “There’s a half a donut in here if you want it.”  He looked surprised when I spoke to him which I think meant more to him than the half donut.  He thanked me and accepted it. 

I walked back over to the bank.  Still had to wait five minutes.  I looked in store windows.  Bought a five-dollar scratch-off instant lottery ticket.  Did my banking, then scratched the ticket.  It won me $20.  When very broke, that is very helpful.  If I weren’t so broke, I’d have given part of my profit to the man in the park.  It’s typically the poor who give to the homeless.  It’s not for a tax break; it's for a tiny break from the suffering.

* Since I am rarely brief, I will share the other special times in another blog entry.