At Large
Hurrying to make the 6:50 for Babylon, the stockbroker bounded down the long flight of stairs leading to the Long Island Railroad, whizzing past fellow commuters on the escalators to either side. His gray Brooks Brothers suit was heavily creased from a long, tense day at the exchange and he was not in the best of moods.
"Hey friend, can you space a nickel?" Addressing the broker was a man in his mid-twenties, clad in torn jeans and a faded flannel shirt. Finding himself largely ignored, he persisted. "Excuse me, I asked you if you could spare a nickel…"
"Sorry, no." The broker looked right through him.
"Listen, I’m not asking for a whole lot, just a nickel – five cents. What’s that going to mean to you?" Besides, you’re going to ruin my quota."
"Your quota?" This caught the stockbroker’s attention.
"From four to seven, Tuesdays and Thursdays, I hit…I mean approach approximately one hundred and eighty people such as yourself expecting a charity quotient of eighty percent. It’s been a very bad day so c’mon…"
"You’ve got a lot of nerve, buddy…A novel approach but an awful lot of nerve." The broker began to walk but the beggar pursued.
"Hold on now. All I ever ask anyone for is a nickel. What right does any man have to refuse a fellow human being a single, solitary nickel?"
"It’s not the money, you understand…"
"The nickel…"
"It’s the whole idea of begging that I’m opposed to…and anyway, there’s nothing wrong with you. You look perfectly capable of holding a job." The stockbroker searched for possibilities. "Do you play the harmonica?"
"No."
"Do you know HTML-4?"
"Some illnesses aren’t so obvious. You don’t necessarily need a physical disability to be helpless and deserving of some pity. I had a traumatic childhood if it makes you feel any better. Besides, who are you to judge me? Stockbrokers are not renowned for their acute sensibilities."
"Well I’m sensible enough to know that you just don’t get something for nothing in this life. You have to work hard to get by." He paused for a moment. "How did you know I’m a stockbroker?"
"Around here, stockbrokers are like athletes, only without the bulk. You have that focused quality that comes from living with clearly defined lines. Each day, you either win or you lose and that’s that. You learn to size people up pretty well in this business. Also, I studied business psychology at Binghamton.
Softening up a bit, the broker said "You’re educated and you seem to have a pretty good head on your shoulders. Why don’t you find yourself some work?"
"You think it’s not work to walk around Penn Station through all hours of the day and night, approaching anyone and everyone who doesn’t look dangerous? I’ve gotten mugged twelve times this year and I was on the track team in high school"
"God knows, it is a jungle."
"Well you know what they say, ‘If you can make it in New York, you can make it anywhere."
"You said it." The broker nodded in agreement.
"I’m one of the most successful beggars in this station and I’m expecting a sharp decline in fourth quarter earnings this year. If this keeps up, I may lose my franchise."
"Beggars have a franchise?"
"Yeah… That’s how they cleaned up this place. You have to get a special license from the mayor’s office to beg here. Without that, the cops around this place will stick a plunger up my ass faster than you can say ‘zero tolerance’. If I lose that, I’m back to sitting on the ground in front of fucking Tad’s Steaks with a sign."
Just then, the announcement came over the P.A.
"Well I’m going to miss my train. I’ve got to run. " The broker extended his hand. "Best of luck."
"Hey, you too."
The broker turned and stopped. "Wait a minute, here you go," he said, handing the beggar a dollar bill.
The broker turned again to leave.
"Wait a minute sir," said the beggar, counting out ninety-five cents, in nickels, from his pocket. "You forgot your change."
As the stockbroker rapidly descended the steep concrete steps to Track 17, the heels on his patent leathers and the nineteen nickels in his pocket played Jingle Bells. Now more introspective than ever, he only wanted to get home and watch CNBC. Normally, he would have picked up a newspaper or magazine, but once he found his monthly ticket, he immediately took his seat. He still was not sure whether the encounter with the beggar was a prank or just a well-spoken panhandler with panache, but after a while, he chalked it up to being just another piece of inexplicable weirdness, so typical of New York.
The broker scanned the interesting assortment of heads facing him on the train. They were all poking just above the seat in front of them and, as the train began to move, most of the eyes began to close. When the train emerged on the tracks above ground, he was content to stare at the scenery, still somewhat lit by the setting sun. His mind kept returning to the beggar in Penn Station. The more he thought about it, the more he was sure that the man asking for just a nickel was sincere. By the end of their conversation, he even found some respect for the beggar’s ingenuity and disciplined business sense but the way he turned down the dollar in favor of five cents irked the stockbroker immensely. Sure, it was a small, insignificant act but refusing more money for less – on any scale – offended the broker’s whole perception of life. Here was an undoubtedly offbeat but otherwise rational young man who, just as he gains the broker’s confidence, draws him into some new, insidiously obscene act of self-mutilation. He felt dirty and violated.
For the duration of the ride home, he was preoccupied with the pervert in Penn Station and the sick thrill he must have experienced when he handed back that ninety-five cents. As the broker stepped off the train, he tasted the pure, wholesome air of Suburbia and the daily knot in his chest dissipated. Finding several street lamps dark, he slowly descended the stairs for the parking lot. He did not need much light. He was as familiar with this lot as with any part of his own house.
The metallic gray of the broker’s Pathfinder blended in with the dim surroundings and he fumbled with the lock on his car door for an inordinate amount of time. Then he felt an object press into the small of his back. Before the broker could turn around, his left arm was seized and brought as far up his back as possible without breaking so he was bent forward, face pressed against his car door window. All the while, his attacker kept what was undoubtedly a gun jammed into the broker’s back.
"Do what I say and you won’t get hurt," said the voice behind.
"What do you want?" The broker remained calm.
"Everything…The money, the watch, the ring, the bracelet…Quickly!"
"And if I refuse…"
"Then I’ll blow your guts all over this lot."
The broker spent a moment or two in deliberation. Then he said, "Fine, then…It’s a deal."
The broker immediately complied with the demands and then turned to see a running silhouette disappear into the darkness. As he got into his car, he thought that he probably should be more shaken by the incident than he actually felt. He had definitely been forced into a losing proposition but after the previous transaction at Penn, it was comforting to see the natural order restored to his environment.
