People point out how nice New Yorkers have been to each other ever since September 11th as if they weren’t before hand. New Yorkers get a bad rap for their abruptness, lack of common courtesy and insensitivity. From the crowded streets to the packed subways, outsiders looking in see rudeness running rampant.

To New Yorkers it’s a result of desensitization caused by the incessant close proximity to others as they rush through their daily routines. How can one stop and apologize to every person they literally run into on their way to and from what they do each day when the recipients of these transgressions abound like gnats at dusk in Central Park on a hot summer day?

Before you call me callous, hear me out. Contrary to popular belief, New Yorkers do have feelings, albeit it’s somewhat repressed by their environment. Let me provide you with an illustration of what I mean.

One evening I was on the I.R.T. subway heading uptown from Wall Street. The car was overrun with commuters heading home to their families and hopefully a hot meal. At Fulton Street a wheelchair-laden man was on the platform in front of the door next to me. His clothes were tattered and hung on him like a tent. His cheeks were pale and sunken, and his stringy black hair was pasted to his head.

My fellow commuters and I squeezed closer together and the man wheeled himself on. The doors closed behind him barely missing the large wheels of his chair. He pushed the metal lever and locked himself into place. He was clutching a coffee cup with some change in it. The smell of urine drifted up to my nose.

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen,” he said. Panhandlers in New York are invariably polite. “My name is George and by the grace of God I am here with you today. I’d like to thank our Lord Jesus Christ, our Savior, whose limitless love He has shown to me, and without whom I would not be alive today to tell you my story.”

A man next to me rolled his eyes. "There are 8 million stories in the naked city," he said, "and we're about to hear one of them."

My fellow commuter's remark was not without compassion, but rather he was the victim of countless similar situations. He knew what was coming next.

“I wish I didn’t have to beg for money from you nice people like this…” The obligatory apology. “But my medical condition has forced me to do so.” Followed up by the requisite excuse.

The subway riders fixed their eyes on something other than George. Lack of eye contact is second nature to New Yorkers, especially when beggars are involved.

“I hope that you find it in your hearts to give me any spare change you might have. Now I can’t force you to give me money,” George continued. “If I wanted to do that I’d have a gun.”

All the diverted eyes in the car were now back upon George in search of a brandishing weapon. George’s hands grasped only his coffee cup. A collective sigh of relief passed through the train.

At 14th Street the doors opened. There was hardly any room, but some people managed to squeeze by George and his apparatus.
“Step right on in,” George commanded. “Move to the center of the car and let these good people on.” He was oblivious to the fact that he was the new passengers’ main obstacle to a place on the subway car. Stuck packages and extraneous body parts were removed and the doors shut tight after several attempts. We were on our way again.

“I’d like to thank our Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God, and my Savior. Without Him I would not be here today to tell you my story and ask for your kind help.” The new passengers shifted uncomfortably, but the veteran travelers had already buried their faces in a newspaper or paperback and were ignoring the sermon. “Fifteen years ago I was diagnosed with AIDS.” The passengers closest to George inched away from him and apologetically pressed against their neighbor. “It is because of my faith in the Lord Jesus Christ that I’m still alive today. It hasn’t been easy though. As you can see I have been confined to this wheelchair unable to walk.” The train began to coast into Penn Station. “But the Lord Jesus Christ has healed me.”

George braced himself on a nearby bar and struggled to his feet. He smiled as the train came to a halt.

“See? I can once again stand on my own two feet.”

“A miracle under 34th Street,” I declared. My fellow passengers laughed and began to file out of the train.

It has been my philosophy to only give to panhandlers and musicians I come across in the darkest depths of New York’s subway system who exhibit originality or give excellent entertainment value for my change. This was a stellar performance. I slipped a dollar bill into George’s coffee cup and exited the train.

You may say that I’m a cynic and have no sympathy for the downtrodden. You may be asking yourself how do you know George’s situation is a pure con job and should be viewed only from an amusement standpoint?

I say, let me finish my story.

The very next day George once again wheeled his way into my life at the Fulton Street station. I was astonished, but I shouldn’t have been. George launched into his sermon, or should I say routine. This time we had our miracle under Union Square.
George relieved me of just one quarter that day. Why the lesser amount you may ask? His timing was off.

So the next time you consider the abruptness, lack of common courtesy and insensitivity of my fellow New Yorkers, pre or post September 11th, consider this. My story is far from unique and is a daily occurrence for my brethren.