I was just rousted off the floor of Grand Central Station by two cops, one of each race. It didn’t occur to me to say, “But I’m waiting for the train to Poughkeepsie!” I accept as flattery that I’m mistaken for the Homeless. It’s my watchcap, partly, with its gruesome chalky hue of blue. But mostly it’s what grows out of my cheeks.
You find this beard on Lubovich Jews, jazz musicians, and the Homeless — period. The Homeless are now the sadhus of New York. Sadhus means saints — or the particular saints who wander. Jesus preached, “Leave home and follow me.” All his followers were homeless. Buddha’s ditto. Perhaps all the higher religions were founded by the homeless. Today I’m eating matzoh because it’s Passover and my ancestors were homeless for forty years.
