Monday, 16 December 2002 | Dirty white sock

The correlation between the cold and the number of homeless people sleeping on the subway is predictable, but easy to forget until you see them, immodestly sprawled on benches, with necks hung forward or necks snapping back, mouths open. Tonight there were two in the car I took to get home; there was no transit strike today, which meant for them a warm, if noisy, place to sleep. It only took a few seconds after stepping inside the train before I noticed the smell. You could watch it hit other people as they stepped on the train; you could see exactly when they made the connection. Most of them responded by quietly stepping through the door and into the next car.

I counted four holes in the left dirty white sock, and two in the right, slightly cleaner white sock. They were pointed toward me, at the end of a lump of jeans and flannel curled up in the fetal position. I couldn't see his head and didn't know whether it was a man or a woman, until he sleepily moved his arm over his hip, exposing his stretched out knuckles and thick fingers. His hands reminded me of my uncle's hands—big and thick, with fingernails outlined in black. There was a man beside the curled-up man, only he was sitting upright and was sleeping with his chin touching his chest, a position that promised neck pain when he awoke.

I was coming home later than usual, since Tripti and I stayed in the city to watch The Trials of Henry Kissinger, a documentary about the man thought by many to be a war criminal. Lots of grainy political footage; creepy, really, especially knowing that there's no happy ending, that those sinister plans really do result in mass death and terror. The film was good, albeit depressing, and I certainly learned something, but I couldn't help but feeling that there are people who need to see that film more than I do, people who never will.

On a happier note, I think I have found a solution for the homeless cats that hang out at the store on the corner of my block. I will keep you updated, if there's anything to tell.