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by Tommy Mcinnis and Nelson Velez
When you go down the stairs from the street, you will be entering the mezzanine level. This is where the token booth is. There are also turnstile gates that lead down to the station platform, where you will catch the train. The mezzanine is very long, about three city blocks, and as wide as the avenue upstairs.
On this cold morning in December, there were a lot of people sleeping on the mezzanine floor. Wall to wall, people sleeping on cardboard, covered in gray blankets. Some were inside large refrigerator boxes that were discarded upstairs and brought down.
Nelson walked down to the mezzanine and stopped for a moment to look at the task at hand. He begins by tapping his night-stick on the tile wall.
Tap, Tap, Tap
“OK, time to wake up”
Jimmy was the first one to move.
“Jimmy, get your stuff together and let’s go”.
Jimmy was drunk as usual; he tried to get up but his legs gave in. He looked up at Nelson expecting some help but Nelson just stood there with his arms folded. He tried again but his right leg slipped and he landed on his back with his left elbow breaking the fall. Nelson flinched, that’s got to hurt. Jimmy doesn’t feel any pain; the alcohol took care of that. He put his hand out to Nelson as a last resort.
“I need help Officer,” he told Nelson. “C’mon.”
Nelson stared at the red swollen hand for a moment, takes a deep breath and puts on a rubber glove he pulled from his jacket pocket.
“OK, give me your hand Jim”.
He tried pulling him up, but Jimmy slid on his knees landing on his stomach. He reached out again but this time Nelson didn’t grab his hand.
“Alright, I’ll do it myself, Thank you.”
He crawled on all fours, and then pushed himself up with his back against the wall, using his hands and legs, rising slowly into a semi standing position.
“There, see? No thanks to you”.
“Good. Now do that again until you reach the top of the stairs.”
Jimmy poked Nelson on his name plate. “V-E-L-E-Z. That’s Spanish.”
Nelson grabbed Jimmy’s hand and turned it away from him. Jimmy laughed and grabbed his blanket and went up to the street. Nelson looked around and saw that the others were waking up, too. He watched as the others folded their blankets, put away their cardboard beddings and cleaned up their areas. What happened to these people, he wondered. How did they wind up here? He had never seen so many homeless people in one place. Not while on patrol in Brooklyn, riding trains at night anyway. Yet, here was a group of people sleeping at the same station every night.
They all left, except one pile of blankets not moving on the far end of the station. He walked over and tapped his stick on the floor next to where he thought the head would be. Tommy woke, sat up, and his head was not where Nelson expected.
“What’s up?”
“Time to get up.”
“Yeah. What time is it?”
“I’m not your fucking alarm clock.”
“Right.”
Tommy stood up, and he had a bad headache. Shit, he thought, drank too much again. He had been sleeping at this station since the weather started to get cold. He had been sleeping in Central Park until about a month ago. Last night, he was hanging out with Jose, and they were sharing a bottle of cheap vodka. Not the good stuff, like Stoli or Schmirnoff, but the really cheap stuff, called White Crown. Five bucks a quart. He grabbed his stuff and headed up to the street.
Once outside, Tommy took a deep breath, coughed. “Shit, it’s cold,” he said, to nobody in particular. Around the corner is breakfast: A church on West 55th Street and 5th Ave. They serve stew on Thursday, oatmeal with fruit on Friday. It’s Friday. Stew is for lunch. With maybe an hour or so before they serve the meal, Tommy headed into Central Park.
Carrying his small duffle, he headed for the tennis courts near 96th street, located in the middle of the park. He went into the building; heading downstairs to the locker rooms, made himself at home; takes a shower. Although the tennis courts are run by the parks department, you still need membership to play tennis. With his duffel bag, he just walked right in. His appearance isn’t bad, he looks like he could have been a tennis player, office worker, or a gym rat, whatever, so no one questioned him when he went in to wash up. Thanks to the Midnight Run, an Upstate New York church group that brings supplies to the homeless, he has all the toiletries he needs. After he washed up, he strolled out of the building, heading back downtown to have breakfast.
Last Stop: A Survivor’s Story is a true story based on the lives and work of Nelson Velez, NYPD HOU police officer, and Tommy McInnis, an MTA Connections outreach worker.
In the Big Apple’s busy streets, these two men can be found doing their jobs and helping the people get on with their lives. This book is their story. The true account of the lives and work of Nelson Velez, NYPD HOU police officer, from his early career as a Transit Police Officer to his work in the Homeless Outreach Unit, and how he met Tommy McInnis, an MTA Connections outreach worker who was once homeless himself. Their story is revealed in Last Stop: A Survivor’s Story. Beyond their daily routine, you will find a story that encompasses the countless people they encounter, as well as the drama they faced each day.
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