A non-wealthy professor I greatly admire once told me that every time he went into the city for business, he would try to remember to stuff a pocket with spare change from a bowl in his house. As he meandered the urban canyons, he would dispense with the money in various cans, cups and hands, until his business was accomplished, and the money all spent. This man lived an ascetic existence, regularly going without, and so a fellow student felt compelled to ask him a simple question, “Why?” He gently admonished the young scholar, stating that it was surely not his place to judge, and by all international standards of wealth, he and his family rested on a pretty flat end of the money bell-curve.

This made wonderful sense, and resonated deeply within me. Altruistic, and full of spare change, I have set out to be equally generous in my new home of Manhattan. The Sunday after moving in to my apartment, I called my old roommate Peter (now at Columbia Med) to meet up for brunch. After a non-responsive half-hour, I assumed he was on call at the hospital, and I made my way to Starbucks. The inside pocket of my jacket began to vibrate momentarily after sitting down into one of Starbucks’ over-plush leather chairs, scone in hand.

Peter really wanted to meet up, but was running late. I tucked my scone into the paper bag, dropped it into my messenger bag, and hopped on the subway. After breakfast, as I walked back down the tunnel of stairs to the subway platform, an older ragged gentleman scooted towards me, and asked me for some change. Having none, I offered him my scone, which he happily snatched from my hands. I heard his “thank yous” echo through the subway walls, as I swiped my card to await my train. As the train approached, I turned around to see the old codger handing off my scone to another in exchange for what appeared to be a dollar bill.

Disheartened and rather disillusioned, I boarded the train.

Today, I took Bruna to the park in the rain. The light rain was quite refreshing, and we hopped around mud puddles, as Bruna tried chasing every squirrel in Riverside Park. The afternoon was a splendid capstone to our time here on the West side, as we prepare for our great migration to the Far East on Tuesday. As we entered a muddy tunnel, I noticed an old man sleeping under some soaked newspapers. Not wanting Bruna to disturb him, I reeled her in. As we slowly walked past him, I heard the very loud and familiar tone of a T-Mobile cell phone.

A) I have Verizon
B) My phone was on silent

I turned around, and saw no one behind me. On the third ring, the mound of papers rustled, a face emerged and out came a slurred “Wazzup?” So, now the homeless in Manhattan tote cellphones. Next time I drop change in a random stranger’s cup, perhaps I’ll ask him how many minutes and texts per month are included in his plan.

ADDENDUM: Last night Jasmin reminded me that a few months ago we wandered into a Starbucks and found a homeless man surfing the web on his laptop.  Manhattan remains full of curious oddities.  I’m not alarmed at this, really.  Indeed, if housing prices rise much higher, I might just fill up my Gregory trek pack, and save a few grand a month living out of it.