Being homeless, even in a big city with soup kitchens and shelters, isn’t easy and it becomes demoralizing at a point, draping you in a cloak of invisibility at the best of times and making you the object of disgust and disdain and even violence at the worst.

Even though it was still officially summer, this particular Saturday night was too chilly to be sleeping outdoors, so I went to an unmanned subway station, one of the less active ones where cops usually aren’t laying in the cut to catch fare-evaders and hopped the turnstile.

As I entered, I noticed an Asian man sprawled out on the subway platform, his head lolling over the platform’s edge. The distant rumble of an approaching train echoed through the tunnel, and a sense of unease settled in the pit of my stomach.

There was someone else on the platform, a well-dressed man whose eyes were fixed on the unconscious figure. But instead of offering aid, he whipped out his cell phone and began recording the scene, a look of morbid fascination etched across his face.

Without a second thought, I rushed towards the Asian man, my heart pounding in my chest. I reached him just as the train’s headlights appeared in the distance, and with a burst of adrenaline-fueled strength, I dragged him back from the platform’s edge.

It was an express train running on the local track. As the train roared past, I turned to the man, still recording on his phone, and felt a surge of anger course through my veins. “What’s wrong with you?” I shouted, my voice raw with emotion. “How could you just stand there and watch? This man needed help!”

The white man lowered his phone, his face a mask of indifference. “It’s not my problem,” he shrugged, before turning and melting back into the crowd.

I knelt beside the Asian man, checking for any signs of injury. As he stirred, his eyes fluttering open, a look of confusion and gratitude washed over his face. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Most people wouldn’t have gotten involved.”

I helped him to his feet, steadying him as he regained his balance. “I know what it’s like to be overlooked, to go unseen,” I said softly. “I saw you, and I knew you needed help. My mother used to say, ‘If you can help but don’t, then what’s the point of you?'”

The Asian man nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. As he turned to leave, he paused, looking back at me with a strange intensity. “For today, at least, you will be seen,” he said, his words carrying a weight I couldn’t quite comprehend. “May you live in interesting times.”

The local train eventually arrived and I was faced with the decision: sleep on a bench on the subway station platform, or sleep on the train? Cops can show up at either location and wake you up to hassle you, or you can become the victim of foul play from lowlifes who like to punch down on those less fortunate. I chose the train.

It was after 3 am, and the car I was in was nearly empty, save for a few weary passengers scattered about. As the train lurched forward, a young girl, no more than 9 years old, stepped into the center of the car, her mother by her side.

The mother, a woman with tired eyes and a determined expression, urged her daughter to perform. “Come on, sweetie,” she said, her voice a mix of encouragement and desperation. “Show these nice people what you can do.”

The girl, clearly reluctant, hesitated for a moment before nodding. She pulled out her iPhone, and the beat of a popular song filled the car. As the music played, she began to dance, her movements precise and fluid, belying her young age.

I watched in awe as the girl twirled and leaped, her face a mask of concentration. The other passengers’ reactions were mixed. Some applauded, their faces lit up with smiles, while others looked on with disapproval.

“This is no place for a child to be performing at this hour,” one woman muttered, loud enough for the mother to hear. “She should be home in bed, not dancing for money on the subway.”

The mother’s face flushed with a mix of anger and shame, but she remained silent, urging her daughter to continue. I could see the weight of their situation in the slump of her shoulders and the weariness in her eyes.

As the train pulled into the next station, the girl finished her routine, and the car erupted in a smattering of applause. The mother quickly moved through the car, holding out a hat for donations. Some passengers dropped coins and bills into the hat, while others turned away, their faces etched with a mix of pity and judgment.

I reached into my pocket, feeling the few coins I had managed to collect throughout the day. As the mother approached, I dropped them into the hat, meeting her eyes with a nod of understanding. I knew all too well the lengths one would go to survive in this unforgiving city.

As the train doors opened, the mother and daughter quickly exited, disappearing into the night. I sat back in my seat, my mind swirling with thoughts of the young girl and her mother, forced to resort to performing on the subway to make ends meet. It was a stark reminder of the harsh realities faced by so many in this city, and the resilience required to navigate the challenges of poverty and homelessness.

Sometimes you get lucky. That night, the train I was on ran both ways continuously without being taken out of service, so I snagged a pretty decent rest. So good in fact that I overslept and missed the breakfast service at my preferred Sunday morning soup kitchen. Dem’s da breaks. Sometimes you sacrifice one thing for another.

I exited the train at the stop nearest Washington Square Park. It was usually deserted early Sunday mornings, but this time I witnessed a scene that seemed to materialize straight out of a dream. A woman, wearing a delicate sundress, emerged from seemingly nowhere and began to dance with an ethereal grace. Her partner, a photographer armed with a vintage camera, captured her every move.

To my surprise, the woman suddenly shed her sundress, revealing her naked form to the world. She moved with a fluid elegance, her pale skin glistening in the sunlight as she twirled and leaped across the park. As if drawn by an invisible force, she danced towards me, her eyes locked on mine.

I sat transfixed, unable to look away from her mesmerizing beauty. She possessed a timeless elegance, reminiscent of the old-world charm I had only seen in faded photographs. Her movements were both sensual and innocent, a paradox that left me breathless.

She danced around me, her lithe body creating a hypnotic rhythm that seemed to pulse with the beating of my heart. I couldn’t help but marvel at the way she embraced her vulnerability, unashamed and unapologetic in her nakedness. It was a display of pure art, a celebration of the human form in all its glory.

As her dance reached its crescendo, she leaned in close to me, her face mere inches from mine. I could feel the warmth of her breath on my skin, and for a moment, the world around us faded away. In a gesture that left me stunned, she placed a gentle kiss on my cheek, her lips soft and fleeting against my weathered skin.

And then, as quickly as she had appeared, she slipped back into her sundress and walked away, hand in hand with her photographer.

After a while, I decided to stretch my legs for a bit and as I wandered through the park, lost in my thoughts, I was approached by a young woman with a face etched with worry. She held her phone in her hand, and I could see the hesitation in her eyes as she looked at me.

“Excuse me,” she said softly, her voice trembling slightly. “I know this might sound strange, but I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

I said nothing. Usually when i stranger approached you in the city, they were begging for money. This woman had chosen her target incorrectly.

“I’m recording a video diary for my sick friend,” she explained, “and I was hoping you could hold my phone and follow me around while I talk. I know it’s not something I would normally ask a stranger, but there’s something about your face that makes me feel like I can trust you.”

I was taken aback by her request, but the sincerity in her eyes compelled me to agree. She handed me her phone, and I began to record as she poured her heart out to her friend. She shared stories of their adventures together, her voice filled with a mixture of laughter and tears. As I followed her through the park, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of connection to this young woman and her struggles.

When she finished her video diary, she turned to me with a grateful smile. “Thank you so much,” she said. “I really appreciate your help. Can I buy you a cup of coffee as a token of my gratitude?”

I hesitated, not wanting to impose, but she insisted. “Please, let me do this for you. It’s the least I can do.”

We made our way to a nearby diner, but as we approached the entrance, the staff stopped us. “I’m sorry,” they said, eyeing me with a mixture of suspicion and disdain, “but we can’t allow him inside.”

The woman’s face fell, but she quickly regained her composure. “Wait here,” she said to me before she stormed inside. I had half a mind to walk away and just as I was about to act on that option, the woman returned with a back full of food.

“Let’s find a nice spot in the park,” she beamed.

“You should have spent your money on this,” I said.

“Didn’t cost me a dime,” she replied. “Sometimes. Being a Karen has its perks.”

Minutes later, we found ourselves sitting on a bench, sharing a meal and conversation. This supposed Karen, whose name was actually Karen, told me about her sick friend and the challenges they faced, and I found myself opening up about my own struggles with homelessness. We talked about the kindness of strangers and the importance of human connection, even in the darkest of times.

As we finished our meal, Karen handed me the rest of the food in the bag, reached out and squeezed my hand. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes filled with genuine warmth. “Not just for helping me with the video, but for reminding me that there are still good people in this world, no matter their circumstances.”

The rest of the Sunday was pretty uneventful, but I moved to different sections of Washington Square Park and watched various people perform their talents, one man even rolled his piano into the park on a series of dollies and played classical music to standing ovations.

When the sun was done for the day and I had eaten my way through the rest of the Karen meal, I returned to that same local subway station, the unmanned, non-police patrolled one, but as I descended into the depths of the station, I encountered two men dressed entirely in black. We had just missed the train, but they waited, like shadows, until the train pulled out of the station before donning black balaclavas and hopping the turnstiles like I had planned to do.

They made their way to the end of the platform, climbed down the service steps that led to the tracks, and disappeared into the subway tunnel. The air crackled with an eerie sense of anticipation, and I felt an overwhelming sense of curiosity. Despite the potential dangers, I couldn’t resist the urge to follow them.

I waited for a moment, ensuring that no one had noticed my presence, before slipping into the tunnel, my heart pounding in my chest. The darkness enveloped me, the only light coming from the faint glow of the tunnel’s emergency lamps.

I crept forward, my ears straining to pick up any sound that might indicate the whereabouts of the two men. As I rounded a corner, I caught a glimpse of a faint light in the distance, and the murmur of hushed voices echoed off the damp walls.

Drawing closer, I discovered a hidden alcove, tucked away from the main tunnel. Inside, the two men stood huddled around a makeshift altar, adorned with candles, ancient symbols, and what appeared to be a collection of small, ornate boxes.

As I watched, the men began to chant in a language I couldn’t understand, their voices low and rhythmic. Suddenly, one of the boxes began to rattle and shake, as if possessed by an unseen force. The men’s chanting grew louder, more urgent, and a sense of palpable energy filled the air.

In a flash of blinding light, the box burst open, and a swirling vortex of color and sound erupted from within. The men stepped back, their faces a mix of awe and reverence, as a figure emerged from the vortex – a being that defied description, its form shifting and changing like smoke in the wind.

I stood transfixed, my mind struggling to comprehend the impossibility of what I was witnessing. The being, seemingly aware of my presence, turned its gaze upon me, and I felt a sudden rush of energy course through my body, as if I had been touched by something ancient and powerful.

As quickly as it had appeared, the being vanished, and the vortex collapsed in on itself, leaving the tunnel once again cloaked in darkness. The two men, visibly shaken, quickly gathered their belongings and hurried away, disappearing into the labyrinth of tunnels.

I emerged from the subway tunnel, my mind reeling from the extraordinary events I had just witnessed. As I tried to get some rest on the local train, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had glimpsed something truly otherworldly, a secret that lay hidden just beneath the surface of the city’s everyday reality.

In the days that followed, I found myself haunted by the memory of that strange encounter, the image of the shifting, ethereal being forever etched into my mind. It was a reminder that even in the depths of my own struggles, there were still wonders to be discovered, mysteries that lay waiting for those with the courage to seek them out.

“May you live in interesting times,” the man had said to me.

Was that meant to be a blessing or a curse?