The Night Shift

Last Saturday I spent the night sleeping on a camp bed in a basement room with sixteen men. Even with my ear plugs in, the symphony of night noises was incredible. Operatic snores were layered under creaks and mutters, counterpointed with sustained trumpets of flatulence. Time and again I woke in the shadow of a guest standing by the table at the end of my bed, though Chris swears I was dreaming.


The call had gone out that, due to a lack of volunteers, the shelter might have to close at the weekends. I'd signed us both up in a vague jag of well-meaning, despite the fact that it didn't really sound like my cup of tea. I like me altruism like I like my exercise classes: full of sweat and incident, with no time left over for awkward silences. Even among the securely homed, I lack the knack of aimlessly hanging out. As a rule, I'd rather be scrubbing toilets than making forced chit-chat. That Saturday night, however, that rule underwent a major revision.

By the time we arrived we were late and chilled to the bone after having spent the last half hour aimlessly circling the church in a snow storm. Drugged up to my eyeballs on cold medicine, I was heartily wishing we'd given up and gone home, rather than a phoning a friend to check if there'd been a last-minute email with contact details on it. But we had, and there had been, and here we were, making ourselves at home amongst the screened and vetted denizens of the city's day shelters.
"Yeah, we were wondering how the, erm, guests found it," I said, motioning to the unmarked door we'd passed and repassed several times that evening. "It makes sense if they're bussed in."
"I know. If someone walks in off the street and says he needs help..." The volunteer co-ordinater spread his hands in what I take to be an expansive gesture.
"You let them in?"
"No! Unfortunately, we'd be shut down. We have to turn them away."

The men who've made the grade are either sitting on their beds, or have nabbed one of the spots on the old sofas near the television. They seem tired - perhaps unsuprisingly, since the rules say we have to wake them at 5.30 for the bus back to the day shelter. There are white men, Hispanic men and black men, ranging from twentysomethings to haggard men in their sixties, although I don't ask and no-one offers those kind of details. Two, Pierre and Alabama, come and introduce themselves and thank us for volunteering. Turns out they are new to the shelter. Alabama's just got into town, and is still holding out hope of a job and cheap flat which a friend of his sister is supposed to be sorting out. Pierre is more of a mystery. Unlike the other men he isn't overweight or gaunt, and he's got the soft voice and direct stare of a ladies man or a con artist. He tells Chris that he can train him and 'get him ripped' - in a good way, we hope.


After some dallying over a Rice Krispies bar I sit down in the one free spot by the TV. I soon see why no-one's taken it. To my right, a scrawny old guy in a green t-shirt sits raking his skin with his nails. While I try to follow the plot of Law & Order his hands are furrowing under his shirt, scurrying round his back, delving into his crotch. Already I'm feeling itchy, and although I'm telling myself it's eczema, I can almost sees the fleas leaping over the cracked leather sofa towards me. There's a limit on how close I can sidle up to man on the other side of me (who snorts disdainfully whenever the onscreen detectives turn up yet another red herring) so at the first commercial break I jump up to use the toilet.

There's no women's toilet. In the interests of discouraging overdoses and beat-downs, the cubicles don't have doors on, but if I can get the room to myself I can lock the outside door. With the door closed the smell is overpowering; the toilets look like the set of Trainspotting and the floor is sticky with urine. Later that night I'll forget to put on shoes before venturing inside, and feel my socks sucking up the grime. Other girls might have bolted at this point, but I've been to Glastonbury, and I was made of sterner stuff

At least I thought so, until the aggro started...

Winter in Wave Hill

"You know, you've got this place pretty much to yourselves."
"Odd that."
The man comes out of the side door of the booth. He's kitted out in heavy-duty gloves and scarf. His phone rings and he takes the call. We wait, the snowing whipping round us. The cold burns my nose when I breathe in, and I dream of long johns and global warming and hot chocolate that doesn't come in a packet from Burger King.

"Either of you students?"
I look hopefully at Chris, but he cuts me off my scam with a firm "No". This, after all, is the man who told the woman in the exchange booth that he'd given her too much currency - despite the fact she'd been rude, despite the fact that he'd run through his travelling budget and was living off brown bananas.

We hand over a twenty and wait for change. There is, apparently, no off-season discount, no danger money.

I know people who swear they never venture above 20th, but here we were all the way up on 254th where there's nothing to stop the snow settling and the feral cats filling the holly bushes with tough, mewling kittens. Wave Hill is a nineteenth century estate on the banks of the Hudson. This time of year there are clear views to the Palisades opposite, although thanks to the blizzard everything was shades of white and grey. Well, most things.

We are the only two on the tour. Our well-prepared guide has double layers of gloves. The wind chill factor means it feels ten degrees colder than it is. Which is plenty cold enough.
"You must come back. The wonderful thing about Wave Hill is that there's always something in bloom."
Chris mutters something.
"Sorry, I didn't catch that..."
"I said, except this time of year."
Our guide looks alarmed. "Well, there's plenty in bloom. Did you not see the..."
She lists, and we nod apologetically. We did see the beautiful red berries. And the purple blossoms. Yes, they were worth a visit in themselves.
The cold pulls my skin tight across my face.

Later, in a coffeeshop in the Upper West Side Chris pulls a seedpod out of his pocket.
"Wisteria."
"When did you pick those up? When you pointed them out to the guide?"
"No, I waited til everyone's back was turned..."
"Sneaky."
He shrugged, and we both went back to our hot chocolates.