island 01

looking out my window one morning, i caught a homeless person in a stained brown blazer stifling through our recyclable bin. i couldn't have been older than 9 or 10. he held an industrial-sized trash bag over his shoulder. it was stuffed with empty cans and probably two times the size of his torso. i tapped my fist on the window to shoo him away, like he was raccoon. he looked up at me with tired eyes and slowly moved to our neighbor's can.

walking away from the window, i decided that staten island would be the perfect place for a homeless person to live. my logic was based on the newly-acquired knowledge that the train that ran from tottenville to st. george was free. it ran twice an hour, all evening. i imaged a homeless person hopping on one of the cars and heading towards the north shore for a slice of pizza on bay street. they could spend a few days there, blending in with the urban decay before cashing in their cans for change. from there, a relaxing hour-long ride would take them to the quiet, empty beaches of the south shore. this itinerary didn't include any of the 13 stops between the end points, every neighborhood possessing their own individual draw.

back then, the world didn't seem bigger than staten island. And it didn't need to.