Jim

Jim sits on the last step of the stairwell leading down to the south bound Carroll Street F stop. He is there every day. I see him while I'm exiting and trying beat the crowd up the stairs, which all happens in a rush. Usually he is reading the paper calmly, like it's the most normal thing in the entire world to read a newspaper on the bottom step of a dirty staircase in Brooklyn. Sometimes his shirt is off, other times he has his short sleeves rolled up around his shoulders like softball players do when they're trying to get some sun on their arms.

He is always so peaceful and studious, or maybe that's just his glasses. I mean, he looks as if he could be reading the paper anywhere, like a living room or cafe table. Jim never asks for money, nor is there even a cup to throw change in. He tries to politely squeeze to one side on a group of people attempt to get up the stairs.

I don't know where he comes from-there just aren't that many homeless people in Carroll Gardens. I don't believe he sleeps down there. One time I was followed by a cop and when Jim saw the cop he just gathered up his things and left. He didn't even act like it was a big deal.

Jack

After work I enter the 23rd Street station and walk to the end of the platform. There I wait to enter the absolute last door of the last car, so that I'll be dropped off safely in Carroll Gardens right next to the turnstiles closest to the exits. I do this so I won't have to get stuck in the inevitable turnstile gridlock and all the mad people with briefcases stacking up against each other. For if I do, then I'll get stuck behind some slow line of stairclimbers, and will be blocked from a quick pass by the inevitable sole person coming down the stairs. I spend a lot of time thinking about this.

More than half of the time that I'm waiting at the 23rd Street platform I'm joined by a struggling human being I'll refer to as Jack. I bet I see Jack three times a week, and as far as I can tell, I'm the only one to remember the encounters. See, the end of the platform is special for him, too. That's apparently where he's set up his living room. Beer cans, plastic bags, lay in the same spot. He stumbles around a lot, zigzagging across the platform, always with a cigarette, which is always somehow lit.

His focus of attention seems to be the upcoming train, which he snakes his neck around into the tunnel to check for, even though I have of yet to see him board one. He's never asked me for change and yet I feel like I have the most contact with him than anyone else in the city.

I stand by him becuase I'd like to be the first one through the turnstiles at a station some 10 stops away on a different island. I'm not sure if he ever worries about going anywhere, or if he can possibly get there any faster.