A few hundred feet away from where the world famous ball drops at the stroke of midnight, I found Barry. He’s a young man, not yet 30, his thick beard belying his age. He’d been out on the street for six months.
He’s from a small town upstate, close to Troy. He had come down to New York because of a job at a restaurant. He was the last one hired so he was the first one let go when the ax fell. He’s been trying to find work ever since. During the weekdays (I met him on a Saturday) he’s on his smartphone, connected to one of the kiosks that provide free wifi, surfing the web, looking for jobs. “I have my resume on Indeed [a job posting site],” he said. So far, no hits.
He had gone to a shelter once and that one time, his stuff was stolen (not the first time I’ve heard this). They’re filthy, he says. He would rather sleep on the street, earn a little bit of money, and then sleep in a cheap hotel one night, then return to the street. Most nights he sleeps in a secluded spot, he said knowingly.
I asked him if he could go back in time and change any of his decisions, would he. “There are so many,” he responded. Can you pick one? I asked. “I would have finished college.”
The best thing that had happened to him was that someone slipped him $100. “What did they say to you when they did?” I asked. They do it when you are sleeping so I never know who it is. “It’s the ones who give you pennies that want something back,” he said. There are people who actually give pennies? He nodded and showed me the special cup he has just for those pennies.
All he wants from God is a job. A job that pays enough. He wants people to know that he’s a normal person and that he’s just trying to go home, back to that little town next to Troy, New York. “People are nice there,” he said.
I showed him pictures of the other people I’d met on the street and he knew a lot of them. “We look out for each other out here,” he said. “If you want more stories, go up and down 42nd street. You’ll find a lot more.” I told him I would return.