It Started on the Elevator

Yesterday, Chris and I returned from a run and stepped into the elevator in our building, pushing the button that would take us up to the 20th floor. Just as the doors were closing, an older man poked his cane in, stopping the doors. He stepped in and pushed 22. On the short ride up, we started a conversation that wasn’t over when the elevator stopped at our floor. So the man (I’ll call him Joe) got off with us and we continued to talk in the hallway outside our apartment. He told us about his life, about making lots of money, being married to a wonderful woman for 60 years, raising a family, accumulating homes in the Hamptons and on Long Island. Then last June it all came crashing down. He was riding in the car with his wife when she began to complain of a headache. The last thing he would ever hear from her was a scream of pain, and then she fell over into his lap- dead.

Joe told that he pulled the car over, then began to scream for help. The police came, but nothing could be done. She was gone. Joe went into shock. He had to be hospitalized for some time. Months later he is still taking medication just to keep going. He moved into the city to be near his daughter. He doesn’t see her very often. When he left his home last fall, he didn’t care about any of his stuff- none of it mattered anymore. He had all his furniture and a lifetime of possessions hauled out to the curb and hauled away by garbage trucks. Now he lives in this crowded city, alone. He is Jewish, but never practices his faith. He is a WW2 veteran where he served as an infantryman. He told us how much money he has, what banks he has it in, and how little he cares about it. He has no desire to go on living and said repeatedly, “Why am I here?” All this to strangers.

He talked mostly about his wife, what a wonderful woman she was. He misses her terribly. When he mentioned that he would like to someday show us pictures of her, we responded that we would love to see them. He said, “How about now?” So it was back into the elevator and up to the 22nd floor. He invited us into his one bedroom apartment. It was sparsely furnished. The walls were drab and unpainted with no pictures or paintings. He gave us a quick tour, saying this was all that was left of his former life. On the tables and dressers were pictures of his wife, his children and grandchildren. Then he took us into his bedroom closet and showed us two winter coats that belonged to his wife. As he touched them with his hands, he began to weep and then fought off the tears. His pain and sadness were palatable.

He turned down an invitation to have dinner with us, go to a movie with us, hang out, etc. He said he is not good company right now. He said that if he came for dinner, he would end up sharing all kinds of bad things he had done, that we would judge him, and that would be the end of it. In spite of our assurances to the contrary, he said he could not be with us, or anyone now. He did accept an offer for us to bring dinner by (he had even showed us his nearly empty refrigerator). As we left, Chris gave him a hug, which from my vantage point he gladly received. I doubt he experiences much human touch. He is trapped in his loneliness, needing friendship, yet fearful of it.

It was hard to leave him alone in that apartment. As soon as the elevator doors closed on us, Chris’ eyes began to fill with tears. The man is in such pain, all alone, obviously struggling with guilt, not wanting to live. He must have asked “Why am I here?” six times in our conversation. And while he does not want to come to dinner, I marveled at how much of his life he opened up to us. I hope we are going to become friends. That is why we are here.

This experience illustrates one of the things I love about New York City. The population density puts us in proximity with people every day who are hurting deeply, people who matter to God. People who have a story to tell- the story they are living. And if we take the time and show interest, they will tell their story. God sees Joe shut up and alone in Apt 22H, near the end of his life. And he sees our family two floors below. With a little effort, perhaps we can become a part of Joe’s story, and maybe change the plot.