I am a habitual watcher of Turner Classic Movies, cable
television’s destination for films from a bygone era. Thankfully,
only a smattering of Ted Turner’s misguided political beliefs work
their way into the channel’s programming (example: professor and
frequent Al Jazeera guest Jack Shaheen, who recently
hosted a series of films supposedly proving his thesis that Arabs
are unfairly vilified in film). Mostly, TCM sticks to anodyne fare
like the largely forgotten Academy Award nominated 1947 Christmas
film It Happened on Fifth Avenue. The film depicts a “bum”
— in the less delicate parlance of the day — who winters each
year in the boarded-up Fifth Avenue mansion of a steely business
magnate. The mansion’s owner is oblivious, as he in turn winters in
Florida. Through a convoluted chain of events, the owner’s daughter
begins living with the bum and an expanding cast of motley
interlopers. None of them are aware of the woman’s true identity as
the daughter of the wealthy homeowner. Spoiler alert: zany hijinks
ensue, the woman finds love, and her father learns the true meaning
of Christmas.
A decidedly less heartwarming story involving a bum of
sorts is currently playing out on real life Fifth Avenue. The
New York Times recently
devoted some ink to the “plight” of
Sojourner Hardeman, a woman who has drifted in and out of
homelessness for 20 years. She is currently panhandling on Fifth
Avenue, which has raised the ire of law enforcement. She was
allegedly “harassed” by members of the
NYPD, who had the nerve to take umbrage that she is creating a
sidewalk impediment on one of New York’s key
thoroughfares. She took her case to court, where a judge
effectively affirmed that the NYPD has been overzealous in their
interpretation of disorderly conduct laws, and Ms. Hardeman should
be allowed to continue to provide her brand of charming local color
in one of the most expensive commercial districts in the world.
Scarf by Hermes, shoes by Louboutin, cardboard sign by
Sharpie.
I tend to subscribe to the masterful arguments of City
Journal’s Heather Mac Donald that the
public space is for all and should not be violated in such
obnoxious ways, but I’ll give Hardeman the benefit of
the doubt. Her panhandling, provided that it is not
aggressive, is likely a constitutionally protected act. But what
really raises my blood pressure is her sense of entitlement about
the whole thing.
The Times notes that Hardeman had a job as
recently as last August as an assistant in a law office, but quit
because she wanted something more fulfilling. About a month
thereafter, she lost a rented room in the Bronx. This cause and
effect relationship should be clear, but nothing can be taken for
granted in a paper that has marveled on multiple
occasions
that crime has gone down despite an increase in the prison
population.
Remember, Hardeman has been homeless on and off for 20
years. We all personally know people with advanced degrees who
would gladly work as an assistant in a law office, given the
current economy. I am not saying that this woman
doesn’t deserve fulfillment, but perhaps preemptively
quitting her job to become a living street obstruction was not the
wisest way to seek it. The least she could do is entertain us by
spray painting herself gold like one of those living statue street
performers.
Ironically, her panhandling technique is to hold a sign
advertising her skills as a typist and computer operator. Those
sound like marketable skills. I wonder if there is some sort of job
which calls for a similar body of expertise? Oh, I’ve
got it. Perhaps Ms. Hardeman could apply to be an ASSISTANT IN A
LEGAL OFFICE!
This air of entitlement is not unique among New York
City’s homeless population. In my neighborhood of
Astoria, Queens, far less tony than Fifth Avenue, lives an
individual known as Cadillac Man. He is embraced by the locals as a
sort of folk hero. For years, Cadillac lived under a railroad
viaduct, filling endless notebooks with prose. He was discovered,
started writing for Esquire and the New York
Times, and eventually published a book which was reviewed with
great fanfare. Now a published author, he found a new girlfriend,
moved in with her, and closed the book on life on the streets.
While his writings do not match my literary tastes, his is a
remarkable American story of success and redemption.
I have never met Cadillac Man, but I have exchanged words
with him on an Internet message board for residents of Astoria. He
has always been polite, but he has an even more galling sense of
entitlement than Hardeman. Despite the turnaround in his fortunes,
he decided that the shopping cart which was formerly his base of
operations should remain a permanent blight on
Astoria’s streets. As
reported in the Wall Street Journal, he variously
cemented and chained his cart in place, while readily admitting
that it is not an attractive looking street fixture. He once
defiantly
vowed that if the city removed it, he would simply put it back.
While I appreciate Cadillac Man’s unique success
story, I don’t quite think he’s entitled
to a monument in the public space unless and until he becomes
president. Thankfully, he has since decided to remove his wheeled
eyesore from Astoria’s streets.
Even more infuriating than Cadillac is one Astoria
homeless guy who regularly camps out in ATM vestibules and bus stop
shelters. He drinks cheap liquor from a paper bag and eats Chinese
food out of metal containers with his hands. Occasionally someone
will leave him a box of food at one of his hangouts. It sits there
for weeks moldering in the sun. I have only been fortunate enough
to witness him in the act of defecation once when I was using an
ATM, but his favorite haunt is the doorway of an industrial
building close to my apartment, I regularly have to look at, and
smell, his little presents. Surely, these must fall outside of the
bounds of constitutionally protected actions. New York, by the way,
is a “right to shelter” city where anyone
can seek refuge for the night.
Well meaning advocates claim that it is understandable
that men like this should want to remain on the street, since New
York’s shelter system is no picnic. I fail to see how
brown bagging rotgut whiskey and ignoring plates of food left by
kind hearted people is a more therapeutic and compassionate
alternative. I have seen the man flag down FDNY ambulances on
multiple occasions, and he is usually wearing a hospital bracelet,
so he is clearly known to the system. Leaving him on the streets,
unmolested, is wrong for both him and the neighborhood. To say
nothing of the fact that he lacks the mental capacity to
“decide” to remain on the streets.
As a New Yorker, I pay damn high rent and taxes. I’m not
without human compassion, but I feel that what I pay out entitles
me to not have to look at the excretory byproducts of homelessness
every day. This city bends over backwards to dispense social
services to the underclass. The subway is full of ads from city
agencies, purchased at great taxpayer expense, advising people that
they might be entitled to services like free lunches for their
children during the summer, food stamps, and free or low cost
health screenings. These services are a fine thing, provided that
they help people move on to better circumstances. But that does not
seem to be the case.
I cannot tell you how aggravating it is to me every time I
see a story on the local news about poor conditions in public
housing. The story usually leads off like this: “Ms.
Jones has lived in the such-and-such projects for over 30 years.
Since that time, she says that conditions have deteriorated
markedly.” Is the real problem the quality of the free
stuff we provide, or that Mrs. Jones and many like her spend
decades living off of our government mandated munificence? Mrs.
Jones would be foolish to leave, anyhow. In New York City public
housing, she is probably lucky enough to have a parking spot. Many,
myself included, are unable to afford cars because of the high cost
of rent, let alone the difficulties associated with parking in the
city.
New York is a place where beggars can be
choosers, if we let them get away with it. Travis Bickle, the
iconic sociopath played by Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver,
famously hoped for a “rain” to cleanse
the city streets of filth. I’d settle for policy
solutions that promote self-reliance for the underclass, rather
than a lifetime of dependence.
But if that rain does come, I’ll just see if
I can hole up in some wealthy industrialist’s Florida
residence while it passes.
