Chekhov’s Mistess

Disappearing People

Neighborhoods, haircuts, homeless people

Neighborhoods are not what they used to be. At least that’s what my friends who knew what a neighborhood once was tell me. Still, living in the city and walking around the same area every day, one builds familiarity with the people there. My neighborhood, the Upper-west side of Manhattan is a comfortable, affluent and not terribly diverse enclave neatly tucked within a much larger city. [This is soon to change, by the way; as soon as our visas are stamped, my wife and I are moving to Brooklyn in search of more space for our son – a common migration in these parts.] Many of the people we know in the neighborhood work here, commuting from other boroughs.

This week, the guy who cuts my hair disappeared. We called him Eeyore because he mumbled over his Russian accent so quietly that a) I never understood his real name, and b) he always seemed sad. The truth is that I was always nervous having him cut my hair because we weren’t able to communicate very well. I never knew if, when I said “a little off the top,” he wouldn’t understand “whittle it all off.” This may not seem rational, but something like that did happen to a friend who went to the same shop. However, I kept going to him. The haircuts were just fine, despite my fears.

Not long ago, I got a glimpse into his life and he suddenly became human to me and not just the guy-up-the-street-who-cuts-my-hair. After having gone to him for quite some time, we ventured into conversation about our children and I found out that he had problems with his wife and was not allowed to see his two kids, both of whom were not much older than my son. This knowledge further inhibited conversation between us because I was afraid to bring up our commonality being that it seemed so unfortunately sad for him. I found out this week, that that was the very problem that caused him to leave the shop. I do not know if he will be back and I may not remember him so well this time next year.

There’s another guy in our neighborhood that we don’t see any more. A couple of years ago I began to notice a man who had what I think is cerebral palsy. He walked with an extreme limp that was excruciatingly awkward and his upper body was contorted (this is not a very complete or good description). He had difficulty speaking, yet, when I did speak to him once, he seemed friendly. I found him intimidating nonetheless. He seemed to get along pretty well for himself, although I don’t recall ever seeing him with anyone.

Last fall, this man was homeless. I often saw him on the street and he looked worse each time, progressing into a reality that we typically only see once it has already devastated a person. I offered him a gift certificate for McDonalds (see my earlier post), but he refused. I’m not sure why. He was dirty and lay in the street. I found this change in him unfathomable as I watched over time. I felt particularly bad for him because his obvious medical condition put him in a different category in my brain than other homeless people; probably not a correct response, but living in the city, I have found I have certain prejudices (a loaded word, yes, but I will stay with it) about the myriad types of people that I encounter everyday; none of these preconceived notions are malicious, but most designed by a dosage of ignorance.

I’m not sure how much time went by before I noticed that he wasn’t around any more. I didn’t see him on the street and I didn’t see him in any of the stores or restaurants where I used to before his decline. I don’t know where he went.

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About this Post

• Posted by: Bud Parr
• Date: June 17, 2004
• Filed Under:
  Song of Myself: Diary

• Comments:0
• Links to this Post: Technorati

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