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.