Not her real name but certainly a woman who deserved a clever calling card. I met her when we bought a co-op far uptown on the West Side of Manhattan. It was an area the realtors were calling Hudson Heights, but it was really just Washington Heights. Regardless of the name, it was set to become the next it place to invade. Right on Riverside Drive, fantastic views of the Hudson River and the mighty George Washington Bridge.
All roads led to West 181 Street. In the early 90s the bravest investors started scouting things out and planting a flag to claim their territory. But there was an extensive cleaning up process that had to happen first. Drug lords on every corner. Kilos of merchandise stored in the dumbwaiters of the old buildings. It made it easy to hide the hooch and move it up and down an apartment building when the police popped in. And the violence. Those streets weren’t safe in the 70s and 80s. I know this as I pulled off a few transactions with the drive-by dealers when I was in college and it was pretty scary.
Years later I bought my slice of the real estate pie (circa 2010) once Hudson Heights was clean. They had a Starbucks, a fantastic wine store and most importantly the stamp of approval from the gays. That’s the hallmark of a successful gentrification.
A few stragglers remained. Like Helen.
She was a user who roamed the streets at night and slept much of the day in my building’s mailroom. I’m sure some of the tenants offered her access to their bathroom as she was hygienically sound for the most part. With the exception of her protruding tracks and not so toothy smile, she fit right in with the newly gentrified area provided she wasn’t bent over a garbage can hurling her guts out. But those incidents were dwindling. The neighborhood knew her and looked out for her. Underneath that drugged out exterior, she was kind, considerate and smart.
Like very smart. I engaged in many a conversation with her as she was a walking Wikipedia. I always wondered what initiated her slide into addiction. Was it something traumatic, or maybe she just liked the high? I could sense Helen wasn’t interested in getting clean.
One day she absolutely split my ribs while pontificating in front of a grocery store:
Learn a lesson from the Kennedys. Trust only a certified pilot.
When she was hygienically cleaned up she was quite attractive, which I imagine helped her evening fund raising to secure cash for hash. Yep, she did the nasty street stroll every night. Not sure what her price tag was, but one morning I saw her in one of the stairwells and she must have had a 50% off sale the night before cuz she was comatose. I was scared. I took a personal day from work and stayed with her. And if ever there was a legit reason to take a personal day, this fit the bill.
Then one spring, I realized I hadn’t seen her in the stairwells or mailroom. It was warming up outside so she probably didn’t need an indoor hangout. I never saw her again on the street or puking in a trash can. Not a trace.
That (for me) was the disturbing part about friending a homeless person. They become part of your daily routine. But you have to come to terms with the reality they may want to lead the life they’re living. We tend to walk by them with empathy and wishing they were better off, but do they even want to be? Maybe not paying rent or a hefty mortgage or cutting grass, weeding or waxing floors just isn’t for them.
Frankly it’s an unlikely perk for most of us.
So it’s almost twenty years later and I still think about Helen.
Not to be intrusive but I’d love to know where she was and that she was ok.
That she was safe.
That she was happy.