Tom

Two doors down from our building on Court Street there was an old bodega. It was convenient for a Nutriment or half dozen eggs in the middle of the night or a buttered roll with coffee in the early morning. Inside aisles were narrow and shelves tall making for a claustrophobic experience. The fabric enclosure outside prevented natural light from ever making its way in. Out in front on the sidewalk, already narrowed by the awning, there was a medium sized blue metal box. I never knew why it was there, but it was chained to a signpost, and made for a rough seat a man might rest upon when his legs tired of standing.

That is what old Tom used to do. He was a tall, lean black man with a huge smile and big dark eyes. He really wasn’t that old. Day after day most days he would stand outside the bodega. He kept an eye on the newspapers, produce, and flowers. Tom would watch your bike when you went inside for a bottle of water. His clothes were worn, yet always clean. From the green army cap to his boots, there was something about Tom that was both benign and a little bit intrusive. He insisted on being part of your life. If you asked him how he was doing it depended on the day of the week.

"How are you, Tom?" I would ask

"Pretty good, for a Tuesday, Mark." He would reply. "Hi to Jen."

The bodega did not hire him to stand there, greeting people as they passed. In his large hand he often held a crumpled blue paper coffee cup. A few coins clinking together at the bottom. Not specifically a panhandler, Tom graciously accepted donations from the public with a smile and a soft-spoken word of thankful encouragement.

Everyone in the neighborhood knew Tom and when he asked your name once, he would remember it. His wisdom always pleased. Nearby restaurants would feed him. There was something comforting in seeing him out there. It was a different time. After tall buildings were leveled in lower Manhattan by terrorists with jumbo jets our big city got little-town smaller. Community grew closer and we relied on the good will of each other to assure us the world had not devolved completely into darkness. Tom represented that cohesion. That unity. When he wasn’t out there, I worried about him. Wondering if he was ok. When he was there, it seemed everything was alright.

Tom was not homeless. He was a veteran who lived on a quiet street not far from the blue metal box. One time I asked him to tell me about himself. (Which was a big thing for me to ask such a personal question!) I wanted to know how he came to be standing outside the bodega not exactly panhandling. He said it was an interesting story. That one day the guy who used to stand out in front of the bodega just stopped. So, he took over.

Tom had a very wry sense of humor.

When our apartment building caught fire in the cellar while we were away for a Labor Day weekend, Tom was able to give me the moment-by-moment news of how he saw smoke and sparks coming from the sidewalk. How he told the guys inside the bodega to call 911. Unfortunately, one of the restaurants which gave him meals was destroyed, otherwise no one was hurt.

Then one day he was gone. It soon became clear something had happened. Word came that Tom was in the VA hospital. He had pancreatic cancer.

Tom died. We would no longer see him sitting on that blue metal box, long legs crossed, elbow on knee, big smile, offering kind words and thanks for the coins and dollars he collected. Someone made a sign and placed candles at the box. The sign read “We Love You, Tom. You Will Be Missed.” More elaborate memorials would follow with box and signpost decorated in his honor.

Not long after he passed the bodega would close and be renovated into a real estate office. The sense of close-knit community did not go away, but something palpable was happening. Like the barely perceptible erosion of sand on a beach, or the wearing thin of fabric washed and worn for years, and years, our once overt sense of togetherness slowly faded. Today divisions seem to multiply. Nothing can be said or done which will not spark fiery arguments.

But I think of Tom and our neighborhood which once embraced him. I miss my friends from the old building. Laura and Locke and Corrine and Tony. And little Paloma all grown up now. I miss Jean François from Quercy downstairs, Louie from Sam’s next door and Brenda from Reuben’s Liquor across the street. Jim and Andy were down the block with their produce garage, and Mr. Staubitz, I don’t know if that was his name, but he was the elderly gentleman who owned the oldest butcher shop in Brooklyn. Fish Tales and Cody’s and the laundromat, the list of establishments frequented goes on each with people working inside who had become like extended family. And I miss Tom. I am glad I got to thank him for his service.

Sometimes I feel like a mosquito flitting along the surface of a pond. Barely making a ripple as I skip and fly looking for my next bite. At others I feel a vast depth to our universe. The stardust from which I am made radiates inside of me. And I feel one and at peace with the world.

“We all just passin’ through, Mark,” I remember Tom saying.

Isn’t that the truth.