Louis lives down the street at the Frederick Fleming House, a government
funded housing for people down on their luck. tucked
in-between brownstones on a nice block in chelsea, it
is the quintessential new york experience, poverty backed
right up against comfort and wealth, but no one seems to
mind, people walking up and down the block day and night,
might wonder what goes on in there, what the rooms look
like the conditions of the beds, the interaction of the residents,
but you can't stop for long otherwise you might be drawn in,
and then what? often, when the weather is fair, louis and other
men will sit on white plastic chairs, some smoking cigars, others
quietly gazing around lost in thought. but Louis is old school, he
is charming in a vest and tie and a pork pie hat, missing some teeth
but chic as if he just arrived from the French Quarter in New Orleans,
i would expect him to break into dance at any moment.
He waits for the right moment to ask, but usually i pull out a five
and hand it to him so he doesn't have to put himself on the line.
"I promise to be a good boy i won't buy no cigarettes, I'm gonna
get me a pizza, she sure is a pretty little girl!" I squeeze her hand
and we laugh. in the summer he's out every day and never remembers
when i've given him some money and i don't always do it, sometimes
I'm in a rush, or i can't deal with the emotion of it all. but at least
once a week i'll slip him a five or a ten, once i dropped off a plastic
bag filled with change, i left it with the woman who manages the place
i hope he got it.