She was already in the subway car when I arrived. Her back was to me and I registered only a few aspects of her appearance: Her long, wavy hair was tumbling out of a knit cap that featured pastel colors. She was wearing a puffy jacket. She was standing up, though one leg was bent so that the knee was resting on a subway seat. She appeared to be inspecting an advertisement on the wall of the car.

We were in the subway that shuttles between Grand Central Terminal and Times Square. Knowing that the trip is brief and wanting to exit the train as soon as possible, I elected to stand in the space by the doors that would open upon reaching the other station. I watched people file into the subway.

My peripheral vision detected the woman still standing with one knee on a subway seat. I thought it curious that she did not sit down; most people decisively sit or stand. The train operator hastily announced the destination and asked everyone to “stand clear of the closing doors, please”. After the trademark “bing bing”, the doors of the subway slid shut and the train lurched into motion.

The woman took her knee off of the seat and, in a somewhat loud voice—more tired than loud—she began her patter:

Hello everyone. My name is Jane Doe and I am sorry to bother you. I have two kids and I am a widow. I am asking for help—any spare change you may have—so I can raise and feed my two kids. Please look deep into your heart and help out if you can. Thank you for listening, happy new year, and God bless.

She had now turned around and I spied a dirty, tattered styrofoam cup in her hands. She was wearing gloves with the fingertips cut off. Her nails were not polished, though they were filed and clean. My gaze drifted down to her jeans and then her shoes. The soles of her sneakers were thick.

She was now standing right next to me.

No one in the train—including me—made any motion to provide her with the help she requested.

Please look deep into your heart and help. Thank you for listening, happy new year, God bless, and thank you for listening.

The couple across the train continued to whisper and quietly laugh with each other. The two girls a few feet away from me did not pause in their discussion about lunch plans. No one moved, no one made eye contact.

The woman tried again, though her voice was now quiet and brimming with resignation:

Please help. God bless you, happy new year, God bless…

I wondered if she knew that she was repeating herself? Was she so tired that she no longer cared about repetition? Had she given up because perhaps she believed that no one was listening to her? The environment certainly suggested this was the case. How many times had she delivered this message? And how much money did she collect as a result? Had apathy replaced any sense of failure she might have felt?

Was she really wishing any of us a happy new year? Did she want God to bless us? Or her? Did she even believe in God?

Her tactics changed; perhaps knowingly, perhaps not:

Please help out if you can. I’m a widow… you never know what might happen… this could have happened to anyone… please help, happy new year, God bless…

Her appeal to the universality of tragedy was unsuccessful. No one budged.

The train began to decelerate. Still watching her in my peripheral vision, I saw her hands rotate the cup in her hands. I did not see her face.

Her voice became more quiet. She murmured:

After my husband died, I cut my hair short… I cut my hair really short…

Amidst the cacophony of the train screeching to a halt, the wheels rumbling on the rails, and the ongoing chatter in the train, I heard her remark with the clarity of a solitary church bell chiming at dawn.

Her statement was directed at me.

The last time my hair could have been considered “long” was in elementary school. Currently, the consensus is that my hair easily qualifies as “short”. Some might consider it “really short”. And some others might consider it so short that they address me as “sir” as a result.

Was she actually talking to me? Or was she merely thinking out loud? If no one listened to her pleas for money, would anyone listen to anything else she said? When was the last time someone acknowledged her? When was the last time she felt like she connected with someone, or that someone connected with her? If she was trying to connect with me, did she consider the possibility that her comment might have the unintended consequence of, um, creeping me out?

But what if that was the best that she could do?

I didn’t hear anything she said thereafter. The train stopped abruptly and the doors slid open. Without looking back, I stepped out of the subway and weaved my way through the crowd, past the turnstile, up the stairs, and into the cold air and bright sunshine.