I’m on the subway this morning when the doors open and a woman carrying a bouquet of fresh flowers and bags of colorful, just-purchased baby clothes gets on the train. She looks like any other mom except for one thing: she’s mumbling incoherently and can’t keep her glassy blue eyes open.
It’s obvious that she’s just shot up heroin.
Luckily for her, the train is mostly empty and she sinks down immediately into closest seat and closes her eyes. A crumpled five-dollar bill falls from her hand onto the floor, right between her feet. She lays there with her arms sprawled out, the bouquet of flowers in one hand and the bags of baby clothes dangling from the other.
I want to help her out, tell her that her money’s fallen, but I don’t want to get into some shit with a junkie on the train. There are only two other people in the train car: a large Black man to my right, and an older, Greek-looking man with a heavy mustache and glasses. The Greek looks disapprovingly at the money on the floor, then looks at me and shakes his head as if to say, What a loser. I shake my head too. Yeah, what a loser. The Black guy joins in the game and does the same. So it’s unanimous: we all agree that this woman is pathetic. And none of us make a move to help her.
But I feel awful for her. This poor junkie, so vulnerable, sprawled out like that with her money on the floor. I wait for one of the men to say something to her, but neither of them does. They just continue to roll their eyes in her direction. Occasionally the junkie jerks awake, but her eyelids can only open to half-mast before sinking back down into oblivion.
Another minute goes by. Pretty soon the train will make a stop and more people will get on. One of these people might take that bill on the floor. So I think, Well, here it goes.
“HEY, LADY,” I say, trying to sound exactly like New Yorkers always do in the movies when they say “HEY, LADY.”
The junkie woman’s eyes jerk open and focus on me. Her eyes are crystal blue, like ice. “You dropped your money, lady,” I say, pointing at the floor.
She slowly leans forward and looks at the bill on the floor. “Oh, THAAANK YOOOOOOOOOOOU,” she says, reaching down slowly to pick it up. “Look at these people, sitting here. You’re the ONLY ONE who said something. THAAAANK YOU SOOOOOO MUCH.”
I just nod, trying to look understanding without encouraging more interaction. But a flood has opened up.
“You see, I just had a SEIZURE and they gave me a shot at the hospital,” she says. I nod again cooperatively, pretending I actually believe that bullshit. “And now I can hardly stay awake to get home. I can hardly keep my eyes open.”
Suddenly she lurches up from her seat and stands in front of me. My heart sinks. Please don’t let her start some shit with me. Please, lady, just leave me alone. But I keep my cool and don’t move a muscle. I don’t want her to see that I’m nervous.
She towers in front of me, swaying back and forth as the train turns corners. Eyes fluttering open and closed, open and closed, she reaches into her pants pocket and clumsily pulls out a handful of single, five and ten-dollar bills. All her money, fanning out every which way like a sloppy hand of cards, is there for everyone to see. What the hell is she doing? I think. This woman is out of her mind!
She carefully pulls out a single dollar bill and holds it out to me. “Thaaank you,” she sighs.
I can’t believe it. A junkie is trying to tip me. It breaks my heart.
“Oh, no, lady, I can’t accept that! Thank you very much for offering, but please, put your money away! Here’s what you can do for me: put all that money away. Stuff it way down in your pocket, and don’t take it out until you get home. Just get home safe. Okay?”
“Yeah, okay, you’re right,” she says, pushing the money back down into her pocket. “I got to get home.” Then she slumps back down in her seat and her eyes close once more.
My stop comes up. The door opens and I walk off the train, leaving one lost soul and two men who roll their eyes and shake their heads at the both of us as if to say, What a couple of kooky broads.
You had the balls to do something that most of the people would never do. Sure that it was as strange as you commented, but I guess that you felt very good with yourself the rest of the day.
As we say in Madrid “todos los jevis tienen su corazoncito”
Wow, what a story. I´m a railroad worker and it´s really hard to me to stand up, cool, trying to empathize with junkies that I see every day at the station. They insult me, some times they try to start a fight with me, and yes they fuck with me. I really try to stay cool and empathize, they are real fucked up, living in the street, and so. But every day at home I feel upset with myself because I didn´t do what I wanted to do: to stay cool, and empathice with them.
At least I don´t insult them back and I´m trying my co worker understand they have a hard live. I just try.
I think the junkies in the U.S. live more in fear of the law than in España, hence they might be more bold and aggressive in Spain. In Spain there are fewer legal consequences for criminal behavior.
Always remember the the William Burroughs ‘junkie’ when he told about ‘how get some money stolen at the station’ ‘the white horse’ is the best drug i tink so but obviusly dangerous and expensive too.
Maybe you´re right. But I´d like to emphazed with´em, you know. But I don´t want to treat any human being like shit, and that´s what I try. But I feel I´m doing something wrong with´em ´cause I don´t reach that goal, to treat them as human being and respect´em more than in a formal way. I don´t talk shit about them with co-workers, but I don´t feel happy with myself either.
I don´t know, it´s frustrating and confusing to me that situation.