Trespassers (Cont.)    
 
Goodman grabbed the Madison tunnel engineering file, saw that all the annual inspection notations were signed and that the file looked too clean with the original schematic neatly folded. Par for the course he thought, picked up the master keys, a heavy duty flash light and headed for the 42nd Street Station and the tunnel access door. He had no idea what to expect. He knew the mandatory annual inspections were mostly faked, he had faked a few himself, but this time energy updates were required and he needed to find an acceptable staging area for the equipment and materials. The door was dirty with spider webs clinging to the sides and overhead. Gingerly he open the door a couple of inches then pushed it open fast jumping back a little in case roaches dropped from the top of the door. Boy, he hated that more than anything. No roaches, just dust and a billion spider webs. The warmth he felt on his face reminded him that “warm in winter, cool in summer” was the tunnels reputation. The light switch was right there where you would expect it to be, beside the door. He had been the facilities engineer for seven years now and knew that the system was well designed from top to bottom. Built in a more community orientated time, the city commune steam heating system supplied heat for half the year to the older buildings in the central city. Too bad, but something like this could not happened today and every so often, some group would try to end it with privatization. Luckily, enough older people were still around to fight these attempts. There was no doubt about it, the system was cost and energy efficient and the planned upgrades would make it even more so. When he hit the switch only two of the light bulbs worked so he left his lamp on and explored the area. Everything was as expected, about fifty feet of concrete and bricked in area, ten feet wide with ten foot ceilings, no standing water, leaks in the pipes or deteriorating walls, the usual bouquet of valves and gages at the far end. This would work fine with a little clean up.

The Union Station access was steep, less accessible to men and equipment but certainly cleaner. The steps leading to the door were swept and the door was closed but not locked. When he switched on the lights they all worked and the first thing he noticed was how clean the area was. No webs, not any heavy dust. This space was smaller, only about thirty feet long and ten feet wide and the raised platform area that was supposed to be on the right was not there, now walled off with plywood. That area was the only reason he had considered this section as a possibility. Upon closer inspection, one of the plywood panels appeared to be hinged. He gingerly pulled it open, turned on his flash light and peered in. At first he was not sure what he was looking at. He opened the door wider for light and took a moment to look around, his eyes adjusting to the dim. The upper shelf area was packed with a hodge-podge of plastic containers, all with lids and labels and a Chianti bottle, half full of change, mostly pennies and a few nickels and dimes. The lower level had a single mattress, neatly made with several comforters and two pillows with more container at both ends. The limited floor area had a rug, one chair and broom, mop and two dust pans in the corner. He got closer and read the labels; shirts, sweaters, shoe polish and brushes, socks, undies, pants, pants, more pants, several large containers market coats and a rack with many pairs of shoes, all spotlessly shined and cared for, some styles from thirty years ago. He suddenly felt apprehension and shame, as if he were trespassing. Leaving the area untouched, he closed the plywood panel and tried to collect his thoughts. What the hell was going on here? Was this some ones home? And if so, how long had they lived here undetected. And what the hell should he do?

Back on the street he called his wife asking if she could meet him for lunch? When Rachel got to the restaurant she could tell that something was wrong. He assured her he was okay, nothing wrong with him, work or anyone they knew. He told her what he had found and asked what she thought? She wanted to know was he safe, could this person be dangerous? Maybe he should go to the police, the well fair department or the superintendent office. Yes, he had thought about all these options and upon reflection, this was some ones nest, their home and he didn’t want to hurt them. She smiled and though that this was so John, and why she loved him. He decided to go back there early the next morning and see who came out. She made him make the usual promises and they spent the rest of the lunch speculating about what and who he would find.
Goodman resist the urge to wear a trench coat and hat and settle on his usual dress which was pretty inconspicuous, stopped for coffee to go and got to the Union Station by 7 AM. He waited on the platform while commuters streamed by, going both ways. After 20 minutes he saw a small old man of eighty or more dressed in a clean overcoat, shined shoes, pressed pants and shirt come through the door, put on his hat and head for the street. He disappeared into the Eleventh Avenue Y and when he reappeared, he was clean shaven and his hair was damp from a recent shower. Goodman followed as the old man stopped next at the Regency Hotel where he picked up one of the complementary guest newspapers, said good morning to the bellman and the doorman who both seemed to know him and headed on up Madison toward the Civic Center looking much like a retired gent on his way to the exchange to check on stock prices. At the alley between Third and Harold he picked up a empty box and went to the fruit stand at the corner where the attendant was cleaning up. The man saw him coming, waved and swept the pile of trash into a dustpan on the end of a stick like theater ushers used and emptied it into the box brought by the old man. Putting the paper on the counter, the old man took the box to the trash bin in the alley and came back to look at the fruit. The attendant opened the paper and commented that nothing exciting had happened, the weather was expected to be good the market was up adding “I sure liked this dust pan. Where did you get it?” The old man answered “from a bunch of stuff left from someone moving over near the lieberry.” “Take an apple and an orange“ the attendant said with a warm smile, “the oranges are from Florida.” The old man said thanks, left twenty cents on the counter and headed up the street. Goodman picked an apple, looked at the twenty cents and asked “is that all they cost?” The attendant smiled and said “you wish.” Goodman left a dollar and hurried to catch up as the attendant added, “he’s my friend.” Goodman thought as he followed the old man up Madison that he had witnessed a most pleasant encounter.

On Juniper the old man saw a moving van turn left and stop in the middle of the block. He stopped, hesitating for a moment and then headed for the truck. Two of the movers were standing in the street while the third was at the intercom talking to an occupant of the building. The old man approached the men in the street and asked them “in or out?” The older of the two answered “up town move, must have hit it big. You looking for an apartment or something?” “No no, just wondering. Thanks.” With that, he headed back to Madison.

At the central library he went in and headed for the reference desk where he was greeted with familiar smiles. He gave the older of the two women the fruit and looked around to see who else was there. Sensing his concern, the librarian said “Claire is in the break room making tea. She baked a crumb cake. Would you like some with a cup of tea?” He answered “Spot of tea and cake, that would be lovely.” smiled at his cleverness and headed for the stuffed chair by the window, picking up a picture book on the way so he could look official. Goodman observed from the stacks wondering what to do. By ten thirty the old man was napping and Goldman was thinking about the work he was missing and what he and Rachel had talked about at lunch. She was worried and with good reason, that the superintendent would blame him for someone living in a steam tunnel. Downtown was known for shooting the messenger. When anything out of the ordinary happened, a pipe break, even a cool spell, the reaction was always the same, pick it up, shake it, see what falls off , then back to business once the crises was over. What the hell he thought, he could always just do the right thing, what ever that was and suffer the consequences.

About eleven forty five the old man said good by to his librarian friends and headed down Madison with Goodman in tow. At Juniper he turned right and went to the pile of trash left at the curb by the earlier move. In the pile was a discarded plastic storage container with the lid nearby. Setting these aside, the old man sorted through the remaining stuff, settling on a lone clothing brush, thought better about the container, left it behind and headed back to Madison with the brush in his pocket. Goodman thought about the containers in the old mans den, how one had been marked brushes, shoe polish and laces and another simply brushes. So this was where the items had come from. He recall how he and his wife left many usable things behind when they moved, a gift tie or scarf still in the box and it appears, so did others. He followed the old man to Saint James Cathedral where he saw him wait in line, chatting with the others, one of the regulars for lunch. Goodman came to grips with the facts. This impeccably dressed old man was homeless and what was he to do. The repairs will expose the situation even if the Union space is not used as a staging area.

Goodman decided on the Madison Tunnel. It was larger and would give him a couple of weeks before work would need start at the Union Tunnel. Two weeks to help relocate the old man. The librarians or social services seemed the best bet. Mabel, the head librarian proved skeptical, Claire was in shock and wanted to call the President if that was what it took to “rectify this intolerable situation.” “I’ve known Rodney for many years.” “He is always so neat and clean.” “How could he be homeless?” “This just won’t do.“ Goodman called social services, hoping for a miracle solution before making a formal report to his bosses. What transpired, the Shit Storm as his wife describes it, was not foreseen.

His supervisor wrote him up for allowing a homeless man to trespass on public property. A pure case of cover your ass. Social services were nice and explained that many effective programs were in place to held the homeless and all that was needed was for the man to apply to the proper agency and here is a list. Our department does not handle requests from third parties that are not related. And besides, related parties are expected to care for their relatives. Why don’t you try the County, they also have programs. When Goodman got back to the office there was a message that he had 24 hours to get rid of ‘his tenant’ or sanitation was sending in a crew. In desperation he went back to Claire who suggested they ask Ann, the fact checker from the Daily News if she had any suggestions. The next days headline should not have been a surprise.

CITY’S OLDEST HOMELESS MAN THROWN BACK ON STREETS
Headquarters backed off the eviction crew and social services claimed they would be glad to help. Goodman was to personally escorted Rodney to the interview on company time, “no problem, see if we can help, we’re not heartless” was the new stance. When social services learned that the applicant had $42,361.47 in the account where his SS retirement check was automatically deposited they pointed out that he could get his own damn apartment thank you very much and leaked their own story to the press.

RICH HOMELESS MAN BILKS CITY FOR FREE HOUSING, concerned citizens and business groups call for end to welfare fraud and antiquated central city heating giveaway.
The road to hell is paved with good intentions. The eviction was back on and Goodman was to personally handle the matter. Several reporters were waiting and swarmed him with questions while photographers snapped pictures of him and a retreating Rodney, pushing a shopping cart with his belongings. Goodman choked up saying “this was not supposed to happened. The way the city and social services are handling this is tantamount to a death sentence. You might as well take these people out and shoot them, euthanasia would be a better solution.”
The next days headline was down right funny.

SPOKESMAN FOR CITY SUGGESTS EUTHANASIA OF HOMELESS
An emergency meeting of the public works department decides that precision cuts might defuse the issue. Goodman was called in, explained that “he had placed the department in an untenable situation” was handed a file box containing the personal items from his desk and given his walking papers. Security was standing by. No good deed left un punished.
Rachel Goodman quit her job, kissed her husband, said she still loved him but needed time alone to think and left for the Buddhist convent on Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia. Goodman took a job driving the oil pipeline in Alaska for the winter season. He had plenty of time to think about his transgressions, what he could or should do differently. Later, he would join his wife in Sydney, take a boiler makers job on the ferry between Sydney Mines and Saint John’s, Newfoundland and do penance helping out at a homeless shelter.

Everyone lost interest. Those who had given interviews regretted it. During their last interview, the librarians made a plea for more funding and the piece was not published. The doorman was demoted to baggage holding. The bellman wisely played dumb. After his picture was published, the fruit stand attendant was recognized by the bunko squad investigating off track betting and took a powder. No one had interviewed Rodney directly and the only picture of him published was of his stooped frame pushing a shopping cart. If any of his fellow lunch guests at Saint James knew of Rodney’s notoriety, they never mentioned it. The recently installed ’No Trespassing’ sign on the Union tunnel access door was still there and shined. The new padlock and hasp were missing and the steps were once again clean.

End

Warren Crane, Mt. Washington, 2010  ©  Used with permission of the author.