The streets are cold after last night’s rain, Halloween approaches and the consumers shuffle around Union Square perusing the artist’s ware, buying their weekly groceries, listening to the scraping of the skateboards on the corner, the wailing of a lonely sax or the cries from the Christian choir. The presence of police, undercover and in their blues, is overwhelming and one of their copters looms overhead, perfectly still, watching. I approach a vendor on the corner of 14th and Broadway, ask the man if he’s interested in telling me his story and he shakes his head. “My boss said no press,” he says. “I can’t talk to anyone from press.” I tell him I’m not from the press and I don’t need to know about his business but he shakes his head, says sorry and the exchange has ended.
I walk over to University Place and 14th a block away, order a kebab and not a few minutes later, a silver Impala pulls up, its internal red and blue lights flashing. Two undercover cops get out, start interrogating the man I just bought a kebab from, asks him for his card, that little white plastic mobile food vending permit that outlines where and what vendors can sell in New York City. His friend watches his cart as he is pulled over to the car, asked a number of questions and he shakes his head, says he doesn’t understand. They begin to mime their words, openly demean him in public, move back over to his cart and tell him to, “Get the hell out of here.” And just like that, he is pushing his cart down University to another corner, the one he is permitted to work on, far from the crowds of Union Square with a muted-pink ticket dangling from his back pocket.
Still in need of a story, I see the older, weathered man behind the red table of the United Homeless Organization that I always walk past in my crazed daily biped commute. “Just a dime. Can anyone spare a dime for the homeless? A penny? Just one penny folks to help a homeless person eat?” His grey beard sways to the rhythms of his hand movements, the ones meant to entice people to drop some change into his scratched up, plastic water jug with a UHO sticker across the front. Two baby pit-bulls sleep on the table, wrapped tightly against the winter winds in a well-worn jacket and as I approach, the man eyes me warily, stops his well-rehearsed patter. I tell him who I am, that I am interested in getting his story. He shakes his head. “My boss said I can’t talk to anyone about nothin’ but the company, UHO. Need to work, can’t talk to anyone.” I ask if it’s an official rule of the company and he shakes his head. “Just me,” he mumbles and starts up his pitch once again. “Anyone that can spare a penny? Just one penny…” his voice trails off as I walk back down to 14th, turn left and head back to the subway. At Union Square East and 14th, another red table of the UHO has been set up and the man behind it, Ritch Franza, is more than willing to talk.
Ritch is in his late 40’s with gray hair, an asperous face, and stands at about 6’4”. His skin is weathered and his eyes tell tales of tough times endured. He carries in his smile and his gait the jovialness that comes through knowing darkened moments. Born and raised in Brooklyn, NY, Ritch worked for a few years as a lab technician at Long Island University before joining the army in 1980. From ’81 to ’83, Ritch was stationed in Germany and later, after being stationed in Saudi Arabia for a few years, was deployed to Iraq and fought in Desert Storm in 1991. He doesn’t speak much of his experiences in the army, looks down as I ask him about his time over in Iraq and quickly changes the subject or says, “It was okay.” Ritch left the army in 1992 and says that although he was received well upon his return, it was hard to find work and soon after, he became homeless and remained so for 6 years. His knees hurt after standing all day and he asks that we sit down. He grabs the water bottle off the red table and walks into the shoe store on the corner, sits and stretches his legs with a sigh.
He tells me that he started working for UHO when he was still homeless, that the job was rewarding and gave him a sense of duty. He says that the job can be frustrating at times because people will sometimes throw sarcastic comments his way or, more often than not, simply walk past as if he doesn’t exist. “You just have to keep working hard,” he says. “Sometimes you see the same people day after day and they stop by and you get to know them. Sometimes it’s real nice.” Three days a week for four hours a day, Ritch sets up his table to collect as much money for the organization as possible, the money going towards clothing and food drives, Ritch explains. Ritch tells me that he now has his own place but still likes working for UHO because he knows what it’s like to be homeless, says he’ll never forget. His shift has ended and he needs to trade off with the woman that has just arrived to take over the table. We say our goodbyes and part ways but know we will see each other soon.
I walk away, thinking of how many of the people we walk past each day are layered beings, each with so many stories, some to share and some to keep private. The rivers of days long gone washing over our bodies leave sedimented memories, forgotten pasts. Ritch told me simply one part of a thin layer today and I think of all the experiences he must have had growing up, the changes he has seen in Brooklyn and Manhattan, the experience of being homeless on the streets of New York City, the time he spent overseas in war. I think of his experiences with UHO, a controversial organization at times touted by critics as, “organized panhandling” where any money given to the organization is, in fact, a donation to that particular volunteer.(1) As I enter the subway at Broadway and 14th and wait for the Brooklyn-bound L train on the platform, a Hispanic man selling churros is surrounded by 6 policemen. They ask him for his permit, he tells them he has none, and they write him up. He boxes his goods up and walks up the stairs, police trailing right behind.
The city is cold today and the train has just arrived.
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