Brown Paper Bags for All: amNY Revised

Stop me if you've heard this one before:

Two women deliver lunches to homeless people. Two out of six recipients say, "Stop. Wait. I don't eat meat," and request peanut butter & jelly or nothing at all.

Heard it before?

Yeah, I hadn't either. Until today. (A baby changes everything.)

This morning, JA and I woke up willing to serve the world. We strapped on our Pumas, assembled sandwiches (on whole wheat bread, to be sure), and headed toward the 7 train with the explicit purpose of feeding the foodless.

A cold morning, no doubt, but it neither withered our spirit nor softened our spunk as we strode to the subway, with high hopes of finding a particular homeless woman, a small, aging Asian woman, Melinda, who spends her days in the Times Square-Port Authority tunnel.

"She's not there," said JA as we approached the foot of a sprawling incline leading to the Great Bus Terminal.

"Wait, she's up there, I know she is," I said.

"I hope so." JA, who, at this moment is writing about this very event, swung her bag closer to her body as we hiked up the hill.

"She's there! She's there! I can see her on her stool!" I was thrilled and nearly ran toward Melinda, whose head hung low over her kneecaps.

Last weekend, as I walked through this tunnel with bags of holiday cookies to dispense, I stopped by Melinda, knelt beside her, nudged her knee. "Melinda? Would you like some cookies?" She smiled back at me - a wide, brimming smile - and nodded her head. I placed the cookies in her hand and continued walking.

Now, as we approached Melinda, I noticed another homeless person sitting no more than five feet from her. Jeffrey's bag of possessions lay a few feet from him, his legs out and directionless.

"JA, should we give one to him?" A whisper, close.

"Of course." She was certain.

"Hi Jeffrey. I have a sandwich and banana and granola bar here for you. Would you--"

He cut me off. "I don't eat meat." His quick response sent a shiver down my spine and made me step back for a moment.

"Oh. Okay. Well, I have peanut butter. Would you like that?" Searching through a green bag for a brown bag marked "Peanut butter & Jelly."

"Yeah. Are you with a church?"

I looked at JA, who was inching closer to Melinda. "Um, ... no. Thanks. Have a great day, Jeffrey."

He smiled a crooked smile of few teeth. Perhaps he can't eat meat. Then again, Jeffrey appeared as a man of principle, a stalwart on issues of animal cruelty.

JA bent down to Melinda. "Excuse me? We have lunch for you." Fresh-faced, sweet and smiling.

Her pained effort to lift her head said everything. JA and I looked at each other.

"Here you go, we brought this for you, Melinda." I knelt beside her, too. Bony hand extended, gripping mine for more than a few seconds. We looked into each others eyes and I smiled. That smile radiated from her face, and I was happy to see her gaze held high as we left her behind, on her small chair; behind, with her legs bent into acute angles, angles that make her as small and forgetful as possible; behind, with only a sandwich, a banana, a granola bar, and a small juice box to get her through today, the next day and who knows how long.

"Let's go to Washington Square Park," I said, and we did. We found only one homeless person - to my great surprise - asleep under a thick sleeping bag. I placed a brown bag on his stack of belongings and hoped very hard that he wasn't a vegetarian.

JA and I walked past the Picasso sculpture by NYU on our way to Sara D. Roosevelt Park on Houston and Chrystie. How did he do it? How did he build this gigantic sculpture out of concrete? How was it shaped and structured and molded and brought here, to this very place? The thoughts of a well-fed, well-clothed, well-housed person.

At the next part, we ran into a one-legged man in a wheelchair, Raymond.

"Is he doing his business?" JA asked. We walked slower, hoping he would finish.

Raymond gladly accepted our lunch and as we walked away I thought I saw him putting it in the trash. But no! Raymond waved his bag toward a man across the street. "Look at what I got! You want some?"

"Raymond, we can go give him a bag too," I called out and we crossed the street to his friend.

A cigarette heavy with ash hung from his lip. John Jacob stood beside a garbage can, his hands now at his hips.

"Hi John Jacob, would you like a sandwich? We just gave one to Raymond over there and I think he wants to share his with you."

"I do not eat meat." The ash dangled as the cigarette expired. Serious visage.

Here we go again. "Sure, John Jacob, we can help you with that. We've got a peanut butter sandwich right here for you. You have a wonderful day now." Eyes locked on his. Smile. A gaze held, shared for more than a few moments. "Thank you," he said.

We handed our last two sandwiches to a couple of men with parked shopping carts filled with green bottles. "Thank you thank you thank you," they called after us.

And when we were done, we went to Whole Foods. And from there, we baked cookies. We had a normal day. But it wasn't a normal day. All we talked about were the people who we chose and didn't choose to feed; Melinda and her sharply folded knees tucked under her little bench, what little she has, how old she is, and which one of us is bringing her food on Christmas eve; how we value each other as humans, how we assume someone without food would eat anything given to him regardless of its contents, and how wrong we are about the lives of others; how we can't do this every week; how in order to engage in sustainable solutions while retaining the integrity of a respectful, genuine interaction between two people we must dig deep, engage, work hard at working together.

We talked and talked and talked for hours about our morning. A normal day? I hope so.