Mr. Ing

Mr. Ing is the homeless man who took up residence on Catherine Street between Henry and Madison Streets in Chinatown. He’s been there for a little more than a year now. He sits under a pile of blankets wearing a huge coat so that all you can really see is his head and hands coming out of this mound of cloth. I would wonder if he had legs at all if he didn’t appear on different sides of the street every day following the sun: seeking shade in the summer and sun in the winter. I did actually see him walk once. He just stood up and all his blankets lifted with him like a 200 pound skirt.

Mr. Ing has always been a curiosity to me. You don’t see many homeless Chinese people. Most people are connected to family in some way. I wonder about his story and why he seems to be here all alone. He sits and reads what seems to be a dictionary and makes notes. He is almost always reading that book. I wonder what it is. I wonder if he is really that interested in a dictionary or if he is just in need of something to do. I see him mend his coat and tend the sores on his hands with little white plasters. He does not beg—at least not that I know of. He seems to have food. I see people give him a cup of coffee or tea here or there. Sometimes I see him eating food someone just brought by. I would love to talk to him and find out what brought him to this place and why he stays, but we don’t speak the same language. I think about bringing him a cup of hot tea or pint of congee on a cold day, but then I question my own motives: is this to help him or make myself feel better? So, instead, every day we exchange our tight-lipped smiles and nods as I walk past him to and from work.