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Marcus is in a jolly mood. He greets strangers with “Happy Thanksgiving!” and makes lewd comments to “hot West-Side babes,” who look back at him in disgust. Marcus unzips his pants and urinates against a tree on the curb of the street. He doesn’t care the West-Side girls seem to ignore him: soon he will be in Florida and there all the chicks are just crazy about him.

At the West Side Community Center dozens of shopping carts full of junk have been parked near the entrance. At the coat check, they also accept garbage bags with personal belongings. I want to tell them I am just a reporter, not a poor and hungry citizen, but they have already handed me a meal ticket and pushed me together with Marcus into the dining room. Fluorescent lights shine brightly on long rows of plastic tables. Two very old ladies with blissful expressions on their very wrinkled faces play “Alle Menschen Werden Brüder” on piano and violin.

Indeed, there is brotherhood galore among the motley crew of guests who let themselves be served by an army of volunteers who are just as shabbily dressed. Only by their badges can the volunteers be distinguished from the needy and the poor.

I recognize a few black men I have seen at the can deposit machine at the supermarket. Suck Monster is also present. The Vietnam Vet without legs I often see begging with a big straw hat in front of the bike shop on Broadway is there, as is the white girl with a disgruntled face: I always see her with a paper cup at the exit of the Chemical Bank. She and her boyfriend once tried to sell me a brand new Krups coffee grinder for only three bucks, the price of a capsule of crack, Bernard explained. Bernard knew all about the downfall of the two white kids, who were actually from a very wealthy background.

There are also a lot of lonely old women who make me wonder how they can survive in expensive, dirty, and dangerous Manhattan. They remind me of old flappers out of the roaring twenties, when Manhattan must still have been livable. I once saw one of the old ladies slumping over a shopping basket with twenty cans of cat food and a few bananas. Was the cat food for her pets, or did she eat it herself? Sometimes you read stories like that in the paper, but I did not want to ask her.

A lady with a pink-brownish cotton candy hairdo smiles at me; it nearly cracks the heavy layer of makeup that gives her the expression of a waxen statue. We see each other quite often at the diner where we both are treated as pariahs, because we only spend fifty cents, consuming one cup of coffee in an hour. I read the Times there, while she smokes half a pack of menthols, powders her nose, and paints her lips. She even has the nerve to always ask for a free refill. On top of that, she leaves sticky lipstick traces on the coffee cups and even the ashtrays.

Marcus and I have barely found a chair before our Thanksgiving dinner is dumped on our plates. It is turkey with a greasy gravy, a dry stuffing of spiced breadcrumbs, and a rubbery piece of cranberry gelatin.

A lady with an overly concerned face asks if we need silverware. She returns with plastic knives and forks. “Happy Thanksgiving and enjoy your meal,” she says routinely before she is off to the next homeless person without silverware. As I try to eat the tasteless stuff with my plastic fork, I wonder why all these do-gooders just annoy the hell out of me.

Maybe it is all those happy interviews on TV post Turkey Day, where volunteers with radiant smiles declare how good they felt and how great it was that the Good Old Lord gave them a chance to help the homeless. I guess they would have been just as happy handing out saucers of milk to scabby stray cats or doing something swell for clubbed baby seals.

On the wall are depressing decorations: a creepy overachieving Mickey Mouse dressed up as a cute Pilgrim Father who empties a cornucopia, dumping pumpkins and dead partridges in front of that bitchy Minnie Mouse. I try to ignore the environment and do my best to enjoy my meal. Also, I am touched by a blonde schoolgirl serving a couple of hardcore winos. Marcus is spicing up his meal with Tabasco, soy sauce, and a yellow sauce he has stocked in his backpack. Loudly smacking, he empties his plate and orders another serving, for “on the road.” From his backpack, he pulls out aluminum foil to cover his plate. Gravy is dripping on his clothes as he stuffs the hot meal in between his portable archives. He is not the only one asking for a second helping. Most guests have small plastic buckets that on request are filled up with turkey and gravy.

Marcus has now been living in the tunnel for nearly five years. His problems started at college. He was a heavy heroin user and started to do strange things. At a Vietnam protest, he doused himself in gasoline and lit himself on fire. He was admitted into hospital with third degree burns.

Later, he wound up in mental institutions. Once he got out, he started doing drugs again and got a girlfriend pregnant. She was also a junkie and got a spontaneous abortion. When his girlfriend left him, Marcus started to wander. At the moment, he is in a rehab program downtown, but he prefers his cave in the tunnel not only for reasons of privacy, but because, as a “new-age traveler,” he prefers to be closer to nature and the elements.

At rehab, Marcus can follow courses. At the moment he is busy with computers, because he would love to scan all his archives and put them onto just a few floppy disks. His biggest dream, however, is to become an acupuncturist.

Marcus is constantly updating his knowledge of his favorite subjects. Out of a small poopy bag, he shows me the The Secret Life of the Plants, an anthroposophist treatise on the spiritual life of the flora, by Peter Tompkins who earlier surprised the world with his works Secrets of the Soil and The Mystery of the Cheops Pyramids.

Marcus also carries a few glossy magazines: Longevity, filled with ads for vitamins, smart cocktails, and pills that bind free radicals and so prevent aging. The magazine has big photos of Paul Newman, Tina Turner, and Paul McCartney, people in their early sixties who still look pretty young.

Marcus also looks young for his age. He must be well over forty, but still he has not one crowfoot or wrinkle on his baby face with its red cheeks. Maybe it is all that carrot and beet juice; maybe it is because Marcus is not a man to worry and stress a lot.

On free afternoons, he goes to the music library to listen to the classic composers or to the public library to read popular science magazines. In the Village Voice he finds cafes with free concerts, and if there is a jam session, he brings his flute along.

It is getting to be evening, and the dining room empties. Marcus is going downtown for his rehab. In a garbage can he finds a used bus ticket that with a little luck will still be accepted by a distracted bus driver. I stay out a bit longer, and return to the tunnel later that night. To do Bernard a favor, I carry two jerry cans of water back. Each is about fifty pounds and I arrive at the camp half numb from back pain. Bernard is not even there to pat me on the back. I light the fire to warm me, and then hear rustling behind me. I only see two shiny eyes and a pack of newspaper that floats in the darkness. It is the Kool-Aid Kid, almost invisible since he is dressed in black. He is also trying to make his contribution to the household.

8. TONY THE TOMATO PLANT

In the middle of the night, someone starts knocking on my door. It is twelve-thirty. I put on my shoes and get my flashlight.

“Anthony, it’s me!” someone calls. I open the door and see that creepy Jeff. The light shines at his face from below and, accentuating his hollow eyes, gives him an even spookier appearance. He can hardly keep his head straight, it is wobbling on his neck as though it might fall off at any moment and roll over onto the ground. Liquid is dripping from his mouth, and he mumbles something like “lighter” and “candles.” Obviously he has scored some crack, but cannot light his stem with damp matches.