An Old Man on the T

Taking the red line back into Boston after an evening in Harvard Square, Cambridge, I was confronted by an old man riding the T. He never spoke a word to me, but the emotions elicited by his appearance was assault enough.

He was an old black man with graying curls--but probably not as old as he seemed. Underneath an ill-fitting blue coat (probably promoting a sports team, but I didn't notice which) he had on a hospital gown, the ties trailing down, gaping open in the back. Pants many sizes too large for him attempted to complete the outfit, but he was in constant danger of losing them, and he knew it. There was a bandage on his hand (I assume an IV was once sticking there), and beside him on the seat was a green plastic bag--the kind hospitals put your stuff in when you're admitted. He was a pathetic picture, and I sat across from him feeling helpless to do anything (feeling extra useless and guilty because I work for an organization that tries to help people just like him--and I couldn't do anything).

The only thing that gave me a glimmer of hope were his shoes. They were nice shoes, with the slightly worn appearance of being used but not abused. The only part of his body that seemed at all comfortable and at ease were his feet. I felt that having those shoes meant that somewhere was someone--be it person or organizational entity--that cared for him.

Maybe I was grasping for optimism. He looked ill, mentally and physically. Maybe he was just an old addict of some kind, I don't know, but he didn't look well enough to be riding the T. He squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, twisting around. Hands clenched and unclenched uncontrollably, and when he got them under his control he tugged at the pants, striving for decency. He was worn out, sick, and tired. Occasionally he would speak aloud, words addressed to no one and everyone, but I couldn't understand him beyond that he was upset.

How could the hospital have released him? Maybe he just left? I figured he would sit and ride the red line back and forth all night, but at Park Street he got up and tottered off, all of his effort going towards leaving the train before the door closed. He almost didn't make it, thrusting his hand in between the doors to get them to bounce back open.

Two young business men on the platform struggled not to laugh in his face, but I just wanted to cry. That poor old man is the poster child for everything wrong with the social safety nets of our society, and he was being laughed at.

I don't know why I was surprised--I guess I wasn't, really. In a society where a person won't even yield to a pedestrian crossing the street in a rain storm, why would anyone do anything but laugh at an old frail man?