Last night Alison and I discovered a new NYU dining hall. This one allows the diner to collect unlimited amounts of food. Being the glutton that I am, I didn't realize I was full until I found myself halfway through my third plate of food, my innards bursting with dull, painful agony. At that point I decided the rest of my food would be more useful to others than it would be to me.

So I brought the rest of my tofu teriyaki to Tariq. It was my second time bringing him food. I felt determined to please him, after watching my first food delivery crash and burn. Once again Tariq was talking to some friendly people I'd never seen before when I plopped down next to him and eagerly put the styrafoam container in his lap.

"What did you bring me this time?" he excitedly drawled.

"I got you some tofu; it's good," I said. I gave him the fork I'd taken from the dining hall.

His simple response made me feel truly appreciated: "Man... you cool. And he brought a fork!"

Then, "Ay, you got a dollar?"

I wasn't sure how aghast to be. "Man, I just gave you some food and now you're gonna ask me for money?" I not-really-jokingly jibed him.

"Yeah man!" he volleyed back.

"What are you getting with this money?" I asked.

"Some beer, man!"

Then I realized I was squabbling over a dollar with a homeless man who'd accepted me at some level just minutes after first laying eyes on me. He'd opened my eyes to another social dimension of this park that I otherwise would have blinded myself to.

Still, there was something that bothered me. Tariq turned back to the people he'd been chatting with when I arrived. Sitting on his other side, I could see how it would be a bit awkward for him to talk to all of us at once. But I suddenly felt passé, like I was the exciting new guy but not anymore. Like Tariq has been living on the streets for decades, and he's seen my type come and go -- the open-minded, middle class white guy who feels cool, urban and gritty for hanging out with relatively happy homeless guys. Tariq directed a story at the others about some rich girls who had summoned him excitedly to the street one night and bequeathed him a trunkful of leftover, gourmet catered food. It sounded grand. I stood up, bid him farewell and walked home.

I got to the park late tonight, about 10 minutes before its midnight closing. I scanned the crowd of new characters huddled around the music, finally feeling at home again when Tariq emerged and cheerfully greeted me.

Tonight was less idyllic than other nights have been. There was another "nut", according to Tariq, but he was a lot less appealing to me than Steve or Harv. In very little time, I found myself breaking up a fight between him and an exasperated regular.

A police van rolled up to disperse our crowd just as the two men's tempers subsided. The nut asked a fellow hobo for a sip of his drink, and was turned down. All I remember is what rang out into the dark, empty night as I walked away from the smattering of stragglers.

"No one ever gives me anything, and you wonder why I fuckin' do heroin! Look at my arm!"

"I don't know their life story, I don't know their personal shit, but I know how they treat me. They treat me good. Now that's some shit to write about."


Steve gesticulates at nobody. Every now and then he lets out a fleeting, sing-song yelp or a melodic whistle -- his form of participation in the homeless people's singalong which brings life to Washington Square Park every night.

"I've known Steve for a while. He's a nut. You know there's the village drunk, the town fool -- Steve's the nut," says Tariq. Tariq has been around for many years. His gray, wizened dreadlocks and upbeat spirit attest to that. "Everyone says there's something wrong with him, and there is. But I've noticed there's one thing he always does. He always wants to share with people. You know, he comes up to people with a drink, he offers you the straw -- people can't accept that shit! People don't understand him 'cause they don't know him. And I get it! People have their fears. But he's completely harmless. I've never once heard of him yelling or cursing, getting in fights, nothin'."

"He's so well put-together," I say, marveling at his tidy goatee and matching, fitting outfit.

"Oh you like his uniform?" Tariq says. "He wears that thing every day. But it's the strangest thing -- I've never smelled his body odor. Hey Steve! Come over here, I want you to meet my new friends!"

Steve looks over, his feathered hat whipping around with his attentive glare. He steps a few feet towards us and abruptly launches something at me as if it had just bitten him. "Yuhwahmuhshuht?" he earnestly offers as I bend down to pick it up.

"No thank you," I awkwardly stammer, taken aback despite Tariq's unforgettable warning. I hand the t-shirt back to him and he throws it right back in my face.

"Thanks, but it's your shirt!" I insist.

This time he accepts, clutching the rag to his chest, where he already holds an armful of folders overflowing with haphazard messes of paper. He jabbers incomprehensibly for a bit with an explanatory look in his eyes. Words mix seamlessly with flatulent bursts of air shoved through his pursed lips. I back away, cautious of his raining spittle. But there is none. Steve walks away, urgently gesticulating.