There’s nothing worse than seeing a beggar cry. I’ve lived in Málaga, Madrid, Prague, Germany, and Mumbai, but nowhere did I see more crying beggars than New York.
At that time, I was working at a video game company called Rockstar Games and we had just finished our latest project, Grand Theft Auto V. To celebrate, they had organized a launch party—after all the effort and suffering of Max Payne 3, we had finally made it.
The party was that night, so at noon I went to Bryant Park to walk around and then to see my future wife, who was working at Rockefeller Center. We ate and then took a walk down Fifth Avenue. The truth is, even if you hate shopping for clothes or going to stores like I do, looking at those store windows impresses anyone. The street is famous for a reason.
Among the high-end stores and display windows, in the sea of people, was a girl about thirty years old. Sitting on the ground, shoulder against the wall, completely deflated, utterly defeated.
I noticed her, but that river of people pushes you forward and I couldn’t stop. I saw her tears on her face, already dried because she didn’t even have the strength to wipe them away. Seeing that destroys you. Because it’s not just the tears. It’s the sadness of “I can’t take it anymore, I just collapse here,” the “why me” and the “why doesn’t anyone help me” and the regret for things from the past and wondering if you’re paying for something, whether God is punishing you and hating him and then accepting your punishment and wondering how much longer until it ends. It was all of that.
When we got to the intersection, I asked my partner if she had seen her. She said yes and that it was horrible. I can’t just walk away—I told myself. We went to a food stand on the street and bought the only thing they were selling. A giant salted pretzel and a bottle of water. It wasn’t ideal, but this was an emergency. We went back and I gave it to her. I said, “This is for you.” She was embarrassed that I saw her crying, wiped away her tears, and tucked the water away as if it were precious. Her face changed and she smiled, trying to play it off, as if it wasn’t such a big deal and she was crying over nothing. I silently wished her luck, and we left.
I returned to Rockstar’s office, and people were talking about the party—whether we were leaving now or meeting there. But I couldn’t get the beggar woman out of my head. A pretzel, I thought. I bought her a damn giant salted pretzel, which would surely make her thirsty and she’d have to drink the water, and in the end she’d end up thirstier than before. I should have bought her something hot. There are a thousand food stands all over the city, for God’s sake. But in the rush, I hadn’t done it right. What if I go back and buy her something? But no way. She’s not there anymore, and besides, it’s the party and I have to go, everyone is going.
To hell with it, I told myself.
I escaped the office, took the subway again, and went to the exact spot where the beggar woman was. But she had disappeared. Why? The police most likely. Here, to maintain that Fifth Avenue aesthetic, they clear out beggars in minutes. Where could she be? Where would I go if I were a beggar? I started searching, scanning among the thousands of people while turning 360 degrees. Damn New York. It was going to be impossible to find her. I walked up to the Apple Store with the glass cube. As always, there was a huge line to get in—what a bunch of losers. Where was the beggar woman? I walked all the way down to Bryant Park and nothing, no trace.
I realized that if I were a beggar, I would go to a church. I walked to St. Patrick’s Cathedral, went around to the back, and met a man who looked like he worked there. I asked him if he had seen a beggar woman who was on Fifth Avenue an hour or so ago. He answered me as if he were hiding something from me. As if he was afraid to tell me the truth. I thanked him and left. Of course, I thought—he doesn’t trust me. There must be some weird underworld here that I don’t know about. Of people who kidnap beggars, put them in a van, and rape them and then dismember them or something like that. Everything is possible in New York.
The September cold was starting to bite. But I wasn’t going to give up. No, damn it, I’ll find her—I told myself. I walked around each block, systematically, one by one, on one side of Fifth Avenue and then down the other side of the street. It was like walking around a soccer field fifty times. Completely exhausting. After four hours of walking, I gave up. It was past 8pm and the GTA V party had already started.
I arrived at the party wiped out from all that walking and the cold.
Talk about two different worlds, I thought. The beggar woman out there, sad and hungry, and here we are celebrating that we finished a video game. The party was in Soho, near the Rockstar building. The DJ was a coworker. He was playing one of the songs that appeared in the game. Damn, I thought—why doesn’t he play something I haven’t heard a billion times? I looked at the bar quickly to see if they had anything hot to drink. But no way, this was all drinks with ice and cocktails. I don’t drink alcohol and I wasn’t about to drink a cold Sprite.
I felt defeated and didn’t feel like partying, but I had to be there because otherwise people later think you hate them, talk behind your back, and if you never go they think there is something wrong with you. It happened to me.
I saw a friend. A super programmer with whom I sometimes sat in the kitchen where we discussed the future of games and technology. I sat with him and he told me I looked tired. I told him about the beggar and he immediately understood me. He was from the UK, an outsider with values like mine. He told me it’s one of the things he hates about this city. The extremes.
A waiter came with some canapés and since I’m vegetarian and complicated, there was nothing for me. But since they wanted to look good for the company, the waiter left and spoke with the chef, who came to me and said: “I’ll make you whatever you want, I’ll cook whatever you want.” He went to the kitchen and in the end the only thing he could offer me was garlic mushrooms. Exactly the two things I don’t eat for spiritual reasons.
After staying the socially acceptable minimum amount of time, I left the party. I walked towards the door and people started saying—“but you’re leaving already?”, “stay, won’t you?” In New York or in Spain, they always end up telling me the same thing.
About a week later, during lunch, my partner sent me a text: “Guess! Guess! I found her!” She had gone to Uniqlo to try on a jacket and the beggar woman was in front of the store. She talked to her, gave her money, and even bought her a jacket. A police officer showed up to kick her out, but when he saw my partner was buying her a jacket, he waited until she could give it to her.
I was at work and I thought about running out and taking the subway immediately to meet her. But I was afraid the same thing would happen again. And besides, thinking about it, it was better to let it be. Why? So I could learn the lesson.
In the past, if I saw a beggar, I would tell myself, “I’ll help them tomorrow, or the day after that, or when I get paid this month, or maybe next month because this month I want to buy something for myself.” Or sometimes I didn’t help them out of embarrassment that someone would see me.
Now, if I see a beggar in need and especially if I see a beggar cry, that’s it. It’s my top priority to help them in that moment because I can’t risk them disappearing.
