Mr. Wall Street

I can share many stories of my life after the Foster home that I can write a book covering just the four years living homeless. In a previous story, I wrote about the  places I stayed  during my years living homeless… from renting a  hotel room, staying at friends homes, living with a couple of girlfriends here and there with their families, including staying inside of a hospital room where a high school friend of mine laid in a coma from a car accident.

The sad part was I wasn’t even a close friend of his, but had no place to stay and  use his room to sleep in when his family would leave. That went on for over a week until his parents took me in and  found me  job so I can save money and find a place to live. I found myself  becoming more desperate finding a place to sleep that I even intentionally threw myself down a flight of steps inside that very hospital with a suicide note I placed inside my pants pocket.

Outside of suffering a mild concussion, I knew that I would end up being admitted, but what I didn’t plan on was being admitted in a “psych ward” on the same property where I ended up staying for over two weeks…at least I had a warm bed and a full stomach…I just played the game till I was ready to move on. This was the only way I knew how to survive out in the world at the time, and looking back, how I did wasn’t something to brag about.

I never patted myself on the back making it through life with no game plan in my late teens, and I was never proud of myself for the many things I did in the real world to survive. Now, I am not insinuating that I was so desperate that I turned  to male prostitution or anything, but between the ages of seventeen and nineteen, while riding the N.Y.C. subways, I was always getting propositioned by certain men on their way home from work.

These guys were not just the average blue-collar workers mind you. They were men in business suits carrying brief cases on their way home from Wall Street. They would almost all do the same thing to get my attention. They would either lean up against you inside the crowed train while bumping into you more than the train would be rocking back and forth, or they would be sitting down holding a folded ten or a twenty-dollar bill in the palm of their hands just enough for you to see.

Now they didn’t just do that to me, because there were actually young male prostitutes  responding to these low life in suits and would get off the station to hook up in some dirty restroom to do the filthy deeds. How do I know that’s what they did? Because I saw first hand what was going on when I did have to use the restrooms at times. What’s even more sickening was these same business men were married with families waiting at home. If only their wives knew what their ever so loving hubby was doing before he got home.

As a Police Officer working in N.Y.C. for over two years, I saw the same thing inside the men’s restrooms inside the Port Authority Bus Terminal in the 90’s like I did back in the late 70’s early 80’s….nothing changed. Young prostitutes with men in suits inside the private stalls doing the nasty. But, I never locked many up. What I would do is kick open to doors to these stalls and kick the prostitutes out while detained Mr. Wall Street. What I would do next was not only un-orthodox as a Police Officer, but would do something that would make them all piss their pants.