Sometimes we play a game called “person or stuff.” It's a dark night; we're walking down 4th Avenue below Union Street, or through some other bleak-looking part of Brooklyn. We spy an ambiguous silhouette a block away. “Okay,” one of us asks in a hushed voice, “in that doorway—person or stuff?” We whisper our guesses and keep walking. I almost always lose. Sometimes I'm sure it's a person, but when we pass it turns out to be a broken stroller and old boxes. Sometimes I'm sure it's trash, but when I get close it's a sleeping man curled among his belongings, and his untied sneakers stick out from his collection of old clothes and bottles. We pass in silence, and even when I've guessed right I feel ashamed.
Person or Stuff?
Sometimes we play a game called “person or stuff.” It's a dark night; we're walking down 4th Avenue below Union Street, or through some other bleak-looking part of Brooklyn. We spy an ambiguous silhouette a block away. “Okay,” one of us asks in a hushed voice, “in that doorway—person or stuff?” We whisper our guesses and keep walking. I almost always lose. Sometimes I'm sure it's a person, but when we pass it turns out to be a broken stroller and old boxes. Sometimes I'm sure it's trash, but when I get close it's a sleeping man curled among his belongings, and his untied sneakers stick out from his collection of old clothes and bottles. We pass in silence, and even when I've guessed right I feel ashamed.