I couldn’t look away this time because the man was crying. He was sitting there on the sidewalk of Park Avenue, arms wrapped around his legs and sobbing, not looking at all the people who were finally looking at him. There was one of those signs next to him, cardboard with a message scratched onto it with a discarded Sharpie: “Need shoes, can’t work tomorrow,” and before I could go back to my mental to-do list, get back on my Blackberry and back into my own head, the thoughts, his thoughts came flooding over me.

His story, that he was thinking: that this isn’t him, that he isn’t the homeless guy on the side of the street, thinking, wondering how did this happen. Knowing how it happened. Going over and over the string of circumstances that got him into this situation; but he had a plan, he was getting a place soon. He couldn’t bear to join the homeless community, he wasn’t one of them. He was taking day jobs in construction and he was saving up, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough to pay rent; no… he was saving up because he had a PhD. He had skills, credentials. He just needed to save up for a suit, for money to print his resume at the library and then he would be able to get it all back again. And then someone stole his work shoes and it was all over. He had never begged. He planned to always be self sufficient. But then his shoes went missing and all he was able to do was scrawl out the sign. He tried to hold it but he knew no one would give him money, that he never would have given either, and promised to be different if… when he got out of this. He couldn’t hold the sign because it hurt too much, seeing their faces as they walked by, knowing how they judged him if they even looked his way. Not understanding. Never understanding. And he broke down sobbing, hopeless, because now he was one of them.

I was up to 33rd street when I knew that for whatever reason, I understood. Even if my own imagined story of what had happened to him wasn’t true, there was some version of it that was. I should go back and give him money. I don’t have cash. I should take out money. They say not to give cash. What if he uses it for drugs? I know that he won’t. I’m naïve. And then I kept walking. I should buy him shoes. I kept walking. Its 11PM, stores are closed. I kept walking. I remembered that I had a gift card to Macy’s in my pocket and I could give it to him so that he can buy shoes. I was still walking. I was already five blocks away, I was late and I would go back later and I continued walking. And thinking about my homework for the next day, becoming a New Yorker again. On the way back I passed him again, still crying; I still had the gift card, I was still walking. I was with a friend this time, I didn’t want to make her stop. Maybe he was dangerous. And besides, I couldn’t give one to everyone. I couldn’t care this much every time I passed someone. So I just continued. I said “That’s sad,” and continued talking about school and the weather.

The next morning he was in the same spot, but I had left my gift card behind this time so I yet again continued walking. Then I started going a different way to school. Looking away faster because there are homeless people everywhere and I needed to get through my day. In the back of my mind always wondering about who they really are. These people without homes, they are survivors. And who am I? I am someone who keeps walking. I went back to look for him a few times but he wasn’t there. Maybe if I found him, I would have taken him to a shoe store. Maybe. Or maybe I would have continued walking.