For most people, it was a typical Wednesday night commute. Not for me, since I don't live or work in New York City. I was on the train, heading in to go to a concert, to see my favorite bass player*, Phil Lesh, in a concert in Central Park. So while most people were just thinking about getting home, I was excited to meet my brother and friends for a fun night under the stars, listening to my favorite music. I knew the band Phil (we all call him Phil, with love and reverence) had put together would be stellar, and historically, New York City seemed to bring the best out of him.
The ride from my town to Secaucus was uneventful. I texted with the people I was going to meet, and did a crossword puzzle. At Secaucus I had to change trains for New York's Penn Station. This is a 16 minute trip that delivers you right underneath Madison Square Garden. It's the best if your concert is right there, but still pretty handy to get anywhere else, because it's a subway hub. (Not that I have the slightest idea which subway lines go where, but luckily, my brother does.)
It was on that 16-minute ride that something somewhat extraordinary happened.
I found a seat right away, and gave the guy already sitting in the other seat the "mind if I sit here?" look. He moved his stuff away, but apparently he did mind. He was wearing khakis, and a short-sleeve plaid shirt, and now put his brief case on his lap to make room for me. He gave me a sort of put-off quasi-disgusted look, as if I just ruined his day. (Yes, I had showered that day, and NO I was not wearing patchouli oil.) I sat down, putting my bag with the concert supplies on the floor, and my pocketbook on my lap. He took his phone out and was furiously texting or emailing.
As the train started to go, we sat like that, in silence, ignoring each other. I was lost in thought. He was typing away on his phone.
About 6 minutes into the ride the door between the cars opened, and a man came stumbling into our car. He seemed to be an older guy, pants drooping down, three or four shirts sloppily layered on, with a torn jacket over all of them. As I was on the aisle, I could smell him as he walked by, an unpleasant smell of urine and something else... beer maybe? His hand was out, and I remember his hands most of all. Gnarled knuckles, and fingernails that were too long. They looked like old man's hands. I saw two different sleeves, frayed and torn.
And he was shouting this up and down our car, "I need two-fifty for the 3 train uptown. I need two-fifty for the 3 train uptown. Who's gonna give me my two-fifty for the 3 train uptown?"
Everyone looked down. Or out the window. Or at their iPhones, which don't work under the Hudson River. But I didn't look away. I looked at this guy. Wandering on a train asking for $2.50.
And I did what I always do.
I took out my wallet. And if the story ended there, I would not be writing about it.
But as I was getting money out for this man in need, Mr. Plaid Shirt was taking out his wallet, and saying to me, "I'll split the difference with you."
I just looked at him, and started to smile.
He continued, "If you will give it to him."
I took the dollar from Mr. Plaid Shirt and took a dollar from my wallet, and stood up and yelled, "Excuse me, sir?" and the man stumbled back to where we were sitting and took the money. He had almost left the car when he remembered to mumble, "Gah bleh you" before the door slammed shut.
Plaidman was a different person now. He smiled at me and said, "I was making all kinds of excuses in my head about why I couldn't give him the money. I can't reach my wallet. We're almost at Penn Station. What if it's not safe to give it him? What if he just spends it on drugs? Then I saw how easy it was for you to do it and I realized I could do it too. Thank you."
"Yea," I said, "It's not up to us to decide what he might spend it on, it's sad enough he's at the point where he needs to beg. I give it to him and remember to be grateful that I can."
My new friend smiled and admitted that he always wants to give, but he just walks past "those people."
Remembering the countless stories I'd heard from people who had found themselves homeless, I said, "If, God forbid, I am ever down and out, I hope my acts of kindness will come back to me. Maybe your act today will start a chain of good deeds."
"I was thinking that maybe by helping that guy, I just prevented something really bad from happening to me," he replies.
"Oh, I never thought of that. So if you go and have a fantastic day, you'll know you got your reward?"
"Something like that!" he says, and he is smiling now.
"I picture you walking around the city, just barely missing pianos and anvils falling on your head! You could write a children's book about that!" I say, now really enjoying the idea of doing a mitzvah and protecting yourself from harm.
"I think that's for other people to do."
We are almost at Penn Station. We are both standing up near the door. I wonder if he will be empowered to give to the next person in need. He is certainly a different person than the one I sat next to 14 1/2 minutes ago.
We say good-bye. He goes off to his life, protected, I hope by his act of kindness. I go off to mine, already in progress.
As a reward for my act of kindness, Phil plays a song just for me. I hold it close as the music and words pour into my soul and fill me with joy.
And for a little while, all is right with the world.
Photo credit: Jack Baribault
Pictured: Jack, Peter White, me, and my brother Geoffrey's back. I forget why we are showing the number one. Maybe someone can enlighten me.
*Phil Lesh is my favorite bass player, except for my cousin, Rick Cantor.
