My heart jolted back to life as I stepped onto Malcolm X Boulevard in Harlem.  Another long day of work with my boss complaining over every minuscule detail just for a salary that could never keep pace with my needs. My mom was the same way-mulling over my every nanometer from the way my hair was parted to the length my shoelaces were tied at. Why couldn’t people stop for any other type of conversation? It always just had to be the same people, same work, and the same issues. Here, on the street, it was different. Construction workers, teachers, baristas, janitors, and investors filled the walkways. Black, blonde, brown, blue, and the occasional shock of pink hair. Taxis, cars, and buses filled the roads. The one thing in New York I had gotten used to was the sound of constant honking and the never-ending construction. The sky was beginning to calm itself towards a dark orange, and the lights of the city resurrected to life. The outdoor atmosphere in the evening was peaceful and somehow warm despite the winter season.

As I walked uptown towards my studio apartment, I saw something that New York provided in abundance compared to rural Pennsylvania back home. Homeless people. Except, this person in particular stuck out to me like none of the others had before-he was sleeping, undisturbed by the chaos around him. I had always walked by them without a second thought. Not in a haughty way, but I have my own goals too. He was a Caucasian male, probably nearing his mid-60s, under the gift of shade provided by a glass skyscraper. As I walked closer, he seemed to look like an angel of peace and calm among the scramble of the streets around us. The only time I could remember sleeping in such a cramped area was during a road trip from Pennsylvania to North Carolina, where I slept the entire nine-hour drive in the backseat.

 A worn-out black beanie with strands of fabric stringing from its every facet comforted his head. Underneath that, his slowly graying, long curly hair absorbed some of the rough concrete below him. A camouflage sweatshirt did its job of hiding him from the world around him all too well. No one seemed to notice him besides me. Next to him lay a small cardboard sign that read in crude black inc: Money Please. 

            “You're not from here, are you?” In front of me was a woman in her mid-thirties with short blonde hair and enough makeup on her face to cover the entire city. 

            “Excuse me?” I said. This was the first random person to ever talk to me while walking on the streets during my entire three months living here. 

            “I can tell by the way you’re stopped there staring, you’re not a new yorker. Let me give you some advice, stop giving attention to people like him. If there is anything you should know about the city, it’s that.”

            Before I even had a chance to respond, the lady was swept off by the current of people around us. 

            I glanced at the brand new steel chronograph watch wrapped around my wrist. It was not a Rolex, but one day it would be. It’s already 7, shoot. There was no money to spare anyways. I had learned growing up that each and every penny was important. Absorbed in these thoughts, my feet subconsciously kept moving forward, pacing to get to my home. The man now was a distant thought replaced by my oak red apartment door with a white number 2 engraved in cursive white at the top. 

            As soon as I opened my front door, my dog Leola pounced on top of me, giving me a full day's worth of kisses. She is the only reminder of my old life that remains with me. A Golden Retriever with soft light brown hair that was starting to get too big and hungry for her own comfort. At this point, even carrying her was a struggle for me. My lack of exercise over the past few months could also be given thanks for that. She directed me to the small blue squeaky ball she loved to play with that was sitting in the corner of the room on the white and gray rug. 

            “I am sorry, buddy, I got a little caught up at work today. Let’s play for a little bit, then sleep.” The window of my single studio apartment had the glorious view of a brick concrete wall. Near the base of the brick building, you could see the graffiti had built up over the years. I had heard some of the neighbors say that the city used to come all the time and clean it up.

            However, this was usually followed up with some sort of a version of a disgruntled “Not anymore though. They don’t care about us regular people nowadays.”

            I decided to skip my nighttime videogame routine. Work today had worn me down to my bones. There was no need for a break from reality tonight, just sleep. As I slid into my sheets, the wood-paneled floor beneath me reached out with a creak-my bed still did not have a frame. The ceiling above me had a dark oak wooden fan, a distant cry from the soft country breeze.

One day, my window would face Central Park, just like in the TV shows. Since arriving, I had been saving up as much as I could to get a studio apartment in Manhattan. 36% of the total money was all I needed now.

            There was that word again. A small green sheet of paper with the power to bring war and chaos but also peace and stability. It was really a glorious spectacle of life. And I wanted in on it. The distinct crude black ink from the man’s sign burned its way into my brain. Who was he? How did he get there? Choice? Luck? 

            Around 4 AM, my eyes still stared into the ceiling fan above me. This was the first time in my life failing to fall asleep-at least that I could recall-a new experience. That is what everybody claimed New York is all about. I decided to take a walk to clear my head. Outside, a chill rushed through my spine, causing small goosebumps to travel up my arms. Snowflakes were beginning to fall in this early morning light, each one a unique shimmer. It was cold.

            After these four long winter months, though, the cold feeling of New York during the day seemed to have no effect on me. By the time I arrived in November, the trees had already been stripped bare. The usually filled streets around me during the day and evening had dissipated to emptiness. The millions of people who walked by one another every day without a passing glance, each one with an untold unique story, had been replaced by snowflakes. 

            The dimly lit yellow street lights faded around me, yielding to the rising sun. This was my first time being out in the city this early. The paved cement felt so empty but so alive. Wandering around, eventually, the same glass skyscraper I had been at in the morning stared back at me. 

            I hadn’t meant to walk this far. It seemed as though my soul was in control of my nervous system, overpowering the rationale of the brain. Under the building was the same man, with the same clothes, the same hair, and the same sign. It was the same as last evening. Except this time, there was no ocean current of people around him. He was no longer stranded.

I am a young Asian man in my early 20s. I’m in the prime of my life. Why did I feel so connected to this homeless guy? His lifestyle was the opposite of my goal, my reason for living. About two feet to his left was a black cap that I had failed to see earlier in the day through the mist of the city. The cap bore a small image of the US flag and under that US Army Veteran in bold purple colors. 

            The men of my family had been enlisting in the army for generations. Even my great grandfather and his father served in the Korean Military. I had no intention of ever doing the same. War did terrible things to people, to their dreams. People like my father. According to stories, he had wanted to be a big business investor, traveling all across the world.  He was smart enough to do it. I knew that much about him. He was a shell of that dream, living humbly off of a school janitor’s wage and picking up extra shifts at the local car wash. I loved him with all of my heart, but he was a constant reminder of everything I didn’t want to be. It was rare to see him smile. It had stuck out among the crowd of hundreds at my high school graduation.

            My brown leather wallet began to weigh me down as if the entire city of New York had been shoved into it. Thirty-six dollars-three tens and six singles- was all that had survived the week. The rest had been automatically deposited into my savings account. How much happiness was this money worth? Without a second hesitation, I left the money by his side, snugly under the cap to shield it from the frost around us. He remained asleep. In fact, I had never even seen his eyes or stared into his soul, or heard his story. There was no “thank you” or “God bless you” to soothe my moral compass. It was better this way, more real.