Ted Believes in Miracles

I have been hovering uncertainly over Substack for more than a year. Like many people who write, I have prevaricated about the right moment to drop that finely honed, impossibly apposite piece that will introduce me to a new audience and inspire me to craft a slew of interesting posts. Naturally enough, that moment never comes and each idea framed for the debut drop is sketched out, neglected or worse, written and abandoned. Over the last year my life has been changing dramatically; there have been some almost seismic reverberations from my distant past, I have given up work in order to write and I am in the process of relocating from London to New York. I am not a natural procrastinator so all of these happenings might have been the right fanfare. But today had to come. And it has done so in unexpected form.

There is a man who survives on the sidewalk outside my apartment block in Chelsea. I noticed him from the first day I arrived in the building, slumped next to a supermarket trolley into which all of his possessions are precariously stuffed, balanced and slung in various bags. Whenever I pass he is either sleeping, crouched over the New York Times, carefully cutting out articles which he keeps in plastic pockets or writing on sheets of paper in immaculate tiny script. I notice people talking to him so I introduce myself. He is a little wary at first; it’s rough out on the streets he tells me and as I discover later he is frequently robbed of those black refuse bags that contain the salvage of his life, such as he is able to maneuver around the city blocks. His name is Ted and he knows many of the residents of the building in which I live here in New York. The day I met him he was busy writing a card for the second birthday of a child he has known since she returned home from the maternity hospital with her parents.

Back in October the weather was still warm and the pavements did not seem so inhospitable. People fall into conversation with him and he is articulate and interested. One day I asked him what he was writing. He explained to me that for some reason he is not eligible for food stamps and other support, so every day he writes letters to the Mayor. He knows these will not be read. Anyway he prefers to sleep up against the wall than in the shelters where he is routinely robbed. And then he said something that stayed with me. Just because it was so unexpected. He believes in miracles. He prays for everyone he meets and would pray for me to be a successful writer in New York. After Thanksgiving I returned to London. Ted has a PO Box number so I sent him a card. Contact and communication is clearly important. Time stretches out for him while I am fretting about my daily activities.

In winter New York is a different story. The weather conspires with some fierce rainstorms followed by a long period of particularly biting cold. Ted slumps under an umbrella, often unable to sleep, wrapped in coats and blankets. I take him soup or something hot to eat from time to time. He appreciates the flavours of home cooked food. We are right outside a big grocery so other folks buy him coffee and food too.

I don’t dig too deep because I worry that asking Ted about his life before being on the streets might cause him unnecessary pain. His mental state seems lucid during those few minutes of a day that I might interact with him but I don’t know his background. It’s hard to contemplate losing a grasp so entirely on the fundamental aspects of our lives that we take for granted. My well crafted routine would be rendered meaningless without home, money, food, never mind the stream of packages being delivered and the distracting vortex of social media. But for many, existence is simply breathing, staying warm, hoping someone will offer a little support.

For a few worrying days after New Year, Ted was missing from his usual spot. I saw him yesterday. He was in a state of agitation. One of the residents of our building had complained about him sleeping there. It’s not enough that they have a luxury home to live in, the sight of a dishevelled, smelly old man with his flotsam on the street outside offends them. The police ordered him to move on or they would arrest him and he would lose all of those possessions; the soggy black bin liners full of old articles, blankets, clothes he has been given and god knows what else. But a man’s life nonetheless. I took him some food and reminded him of what he told me about believing in miracles. I felt rather pathetic. But he smiled and held out his hands and said yes, these are my miracles, and they will be yours too. This morning it is snowing and Ted has gone, forced to find another street corner on which to survive. I will look out for him.