A couple months ago, my friend Amy asked me whether I'd like to spend a cold January night counting homeless people on New York City streets. She works for a nonprofit that was planning to volunteer for the Homeless Outreach Population Estimate, and they needed extra counters. Yes! I told her, and made tentative plans to take a vacation day for the event.
I don't like that my relationship with the homeless community is mostly limited to low-profile financial dealings and train aroma. I wanted to get better acquainted, and I'd already imagined a series of bizarre exchanges I'd have, and photos I might take, if they let me. I figured all of it would make me sad (even the moments that would make me laugh would eventually turn on me), but I wanted to witness it all anyway, and to see a new face to my complicated town. Everything here is so different at night.
However, a few weeks ago, Amy's nonprofit unfortunately ended up backing out of the endeavor, so I crossed that off my list and half-heartedly entertained the idea of wandering around on my own one night. (just kidding, dad!)
...
Close to midnight, I was walking along Fulton Street in Brooklyn when I was approached by a cluster of people wearing name tags and bearing clipboards. They looked safe and eager, and I wasn't in a hurry, so I stopped and waited several seconds for their pitch, figuring they needed directions or a signature or something.
The block was unusually empty because of the cold, and we were all exhaling visibly. The girl who spoke first was friendly and uncertain. She stammered part of a question, and then looked back at her supervisor for support. "I need a questionnaire?" she half-asked her leader.
The supervisor, who seemed well-meaning but clearly wanted the reigns, took over. "Don't worry, you can do it. Like this," she said to the girl. And then she turned to me and said, "Excuse me, do you have a place indoors that you call home?" Um, yes. "And do you have a place to sleep tonight?" Yes. "Have you been asked these questions by anyone else yet?" No. "Thank you." And then, addressing the girl again, she said, "See? It's easy." Homeless people aren't so scary, she probably wanted to add.
As soon as they wandered off, I looked down at myself to remember what I was wearing. A bulky fake fur jacket, thin cotton gloves, loud pants, cowboy boots, and a thrifted knit hat with robots on it. Hm.
A few minutes later, when I met up with Todd, I asked whether he thought I looked like a homeless person. "Well now that you mention it, you kinda do, actually. Why do you ask?"
If you were to ask me how many restaurants were in New York City, I'd have to say seven, because I can only think of seven. Whenever I find a restaurant I really like, I tend to develop tunnel vision and become weirdly loyal to it, so much that I'm not inclined to shop around.
I think it has more to do with familiarity than with loyalty, though. Maybe it's laziness? I don't think so, because I'm genuinely in love with all the places on my list. Maybe that's what it is -- devotion to the thing I like, but more for my behalf than for the sake of showing allegiance.
Somehow new restaurants and menu items find a way to creep onto the list, despite that I always eat the same stuff: someone else chooses a restaurant (which is a relief), and I have a new opportunity to discover the rare dish that's able to barrel its way through my peculiar checklist. It always starts with a menu item, and I suppose that's where it usually ends, too.
I'm honestly kind of embarrassed that I'm so utterly routine that even the man who sells muffins on the corner near my office building tacitly knows what my first, second, and third choice muffin is. And I hardly ever even eat muffins. It's also strange because, on the whole, I'm really pretty adventurous. I can tell you don't believe me, but it's true.
Out of all the places I frequent, my lunch place is by far the most critical to my routine and (maybe this is going too far) my happiness. It's close, it's cheap, it's the perfect amount of food, I don't have to make decisions, my lunch comes in very little packaging, and the people there are exceptionally friendly. We all know each other's names and hometowns (we represent exactly two: Raleigh and Mexico City), and they know my particular order without me having to make a sound. My feet know about my approval of this place, and lead me to it regularly without any extra encouragement from my mind.
A couple weeks ago, I arrived at my restaurant only to find its doors locked and bearing an unsettling sign that read, "Notice: Closed by order of the Commissioner of Heath and Mental Hygiene."
I stared at the sign for what felt like a long time, unsure of what to do, or what to make of the words "mental hygiene." I felt a little wounded, as if it were an affront to me personally, and I was unsure as to how to find a suitable replacement. I assumed the proclamation meant a permanent change for me, and I spent the rest of the week bouncing from one inferior establishment to another, paying three times the price for lunch and feeling dumb for becoming so dependent.
As it turns out, my restaurant reopened immediately. Apparently they fixed whatever problem I probably don't want to know about and went on with business the very next day, while I was ignorantly and reluctantly visiting the chain restaurant competition.
After I learned of my restaurant's resurrection, a couple friends suggested that, if nothing else, maybe the scare would make me appreciate the place more. But I don't have that problem at all -- in fact, I have the opposite. I appreciate things to death, which stems from my irrational belief that if I don't take something for granted, then it won't go away. While it spares me from regret in one obvious way, I think it makes me excessively lament on what life would be like without that thing, so much that I sometimes forget to relax and enjoy it.
