Walking to the bank at 79th and Broadway.  Spot a guy, a beggar, sitting on
the ground, moaning, crying his eyes out.  A real skell - stringy red hair,
dirty clothes, leaned over, tears hitting the concrete just below one of the
most elegant apartment buildings in NY, the Astor family's 1908 Apthorp - all
limestone, recently cleaned (with indifferent results).

I can say 'good luck' or 'hi' to the average street type, but I can't take
this guy - just too scuzzy looking, even though I've seen him before.  I
actually walk out into traffic, around a stopped bus, just to avoid passing
within 15 feet of his moaning, miserable life.

While I'm making my $15,000 deposit, I notice some little kids walking past
him with their nanny.  I can't see him, but I see them, and they look at
where he is, and then up to their nanny for a cue, to see what they should do
in this unfamiliar situation.  They see she stares straight ahead, to ignore
him, and then they look back at him, and then they, too,  look straight ahead.

Coming out of the bank, I walk up to him, kneel down and say "Hey, what's
wrong bud?"  He gives me some story about trying to get enough money to take
the subway down to the village for something to eat - it's improbable, but
mercifully brief.

I suggest that if he's hungry he's got enough to get a loaf of Italian bread
at Zabar's for 99 cents, but he says he's got to get to this particular
macrobiotic restaurant in the West Village.   I mention that it seems to me
he's got several bucks in his grubby paper cup, and he could get on the train
now.  He looks in his cup and brightens up, "yeah, man, that's right".   I
say "Hey, feel better, good luck" and he smiles and says "thanks, man".

Sign me,   Hey, Yukon Guy, Do Have Street People Up There?