Most people flock to Florida for Spring Break, but not the Minaret editorial staff. While everyone else was off cozying up at the beach, we journeyed to New York City for the annual College Media Association conference held at the Sheraton Hotel in Times Square. The trip was filled with a multitude of exhilarating times, but there was one night in particular that will forever be etched in my mind: the night I met Ash, Punch and Juice.
I woke up with a jolt and desperately searched for my phone to see just how late I’d slept. Much to my delight, it was only about 8:30 p.m. It was Friday night, and while all of the other editors were off hitting the town, I had been in a lethargic slumber. But after waking up, I rekindled a second burst of energy. Perhaps I could still salvage the night.
I texted our photo editor Casey Budd, who’d also stayed behind to nap, to see if she was up for doing something. Turns out she had been itching to escape the hotel as well, so we quickly perused the Internet for “fun, cheap things to do in NYC on a Friday night.” In retrospect, it’s a bit embarrassing that we had to search for things to do in New York City, but hey, we were desperate.
We thought about going to a comedy club, finding a cheap show or even shopping at one of the thousands of stores that surrounded us, but all of those things required money—something we were running extremely low on.
We were both on the verge of taking another nap, when an idea popped into my mind. “Why not do something to help people?”
Previously, I had been consumed with guilt as we walked through the city each day. Countless people who were down on their luck approached me at various points during the trip asking for money or food. Given the bustling pace of the streets, I had to keep moving.
This burned me inside, as homelessness has always been an issue I’ve been passionate about. In Tampa, I’d gone on several Homeless Outreach trips and decided to pioneer one of my own tonight—even if it was just Casey and I. She seemed excited to go, so we suited up in our warmest clothes and headed for the lobby.
The most memorable night of the trip had begun. It always takes a bit of courage to will yourself to leave the comfort of a warm hotel room when you know it’s below freezing outside. Immediately after we left the hotel, we were instantly greeted by a vicious wind that nearly sent my beanie flying. The cool air burned my face and caused my cheeks and ears to swell.
Still, we kept moving and soon began to ignore the biting cold as we looked at the magnificent concrete jungle that towered above us. It’s no joke when people say that New York is the “city that never sleeps.” Signs adorned with neon lights lined the street and the sounds of taxicab horns and police sirens echoed through the air. Everywhere we looked, someone was doing something.
We figured we could help the most number of people by purchasing non-perishable items. Casey and I loaded up our bags with granola bars from the local Duane Reade convenience store and scoured the city for people in need.
At first, our search came to no avail.
“Where did they all go?” Casey said at one point. “There were hundreds of them scattered throughout the streets during the day and now it seems like they’ve disappeared.”
The night was looking pretty dismal. We’d finally found a mission, but we couldn’t fulfill it. We ventured through Central Park, Times Square and several other tourist-centric locations. Though it was a beautiful walk, the only thing we’d found was overpriced merchandise.
As we walked back toward the hotel, I saw what I believed to be a homeless man sitting on a box. For someone who was devoid of shelter and sitting in the biting cold, he looked quite content.
He wore a goofy grin on his face and sported a backwards cap that read, “I LOVE NY” in bold typeface. He slapped his hands against the plastic box as if he were freestyling some type of drumbeat and met us with a smile.
“Evening, friends!” he said as he rocked his head from side to side. “What brings you out here on such a cold evening?”
We explained that we were simply trying to help people out who might be in need. He gratefully accepted a few snacks and proceeded to tell us that he believed he was on the verge of winning the lottery.
He handed us his business card which read, “ASH: No Fear, No Surprise, No Hesitation, No Doubt,” which also included his phone number. He gave us strict orders to call him if he ever won the lottery. He intended to reimburse us for the gift we’d given him.
Ash represents hope. Despite his situation, he still retained an affable and personable demeanor. There’s no doubt in my mind that Ash will someday win the lottery.
Since meeting Ash, Casey and I had encountered a few other homeless people along the way. Many of them denied our food offerings and one even condemned us as spawns of the devil. We remembered that many of these people are disconnected from society and are rightfully apprehensive about accepting gifts from outsiders.
After a string of unsuccessful meetings, we eventually met a man wrapped in a cocoon made of sleeping bags outside of a storefront. He was missing a considerable amount of teeth and his stringy hair was sneaking out from underneath his wool beanie. His eyes darted back and forth as he scanned the busy cityscape around him. When we arrived, he quickly shifted his gaze, but his eyes widened when he saw we had food in our bags. We offered him as much as he wanted and he excitedly accepted the food.
We came to find out that his name was Juice. Juice spoke very little, but when he did speak you knew he really meant it. We mostly shot the breeze over mundane topics such as the weather, how weird Florida is and why we were in New York in the first place. When we finally said our goodbyes, though, Juice flashed a huge grin that pushed away the worn wrinkles on his face. I saw a man that, for at least a moment, was happy.
Juice represents joy. He wasn’t the most outward person, but there was a certain twinkle in his eye that held the essence of a hidden appreciation for the little things in life.
Without realizing it, Casey and I had spent two hours tracing up and down the streets of New York. We’d nearly depleted our supply of granola bars and figured we should start heading back to the hotel in order to prepare for our last full day in the city.
On the way back, my phone buzzed and a text popped up from Jordan Llanes, my fellow sports editor, asking where we were and what we were doing. We had initially planned to bring our evening to a close, but Jordan’s appetite dictated otherwise. He wanted to find a pizza shop, which in New York is like looking for a retirement home in Florida: they’re everywhere.
Nearly a block away from Sbarro’s pizza, I stopped to see a young boy with matted hair and a smile, tugging on the jackets of several pedestrians in pursuit of something to eat. To my annoyance, only a few people gave him second notice and only one stopped to hand him something to eat.
“Sorry, Jordan. Pizza will have to wait,” I said, dragging my two companions in the direction of the little boy.
As I bent over to hand him the remainder of our snacks, a shorter man with a scruffy beard and hardened, callused face came over and instructed the boy to say thank you. The man had olive tan skin and rich black hair and wore a black zip-up sweatshirt that clearly was not warm enough. He explained that he was the boy’s father and introduced himself as “Punch.”
“My real name’s Ariel… but I ain’t a Disney princess. My friends call me Punch ‘cause I used to be a boxer out in Cali. You guys ever been out there?” The man spoke with a raspy voice that contained traces of a subtle Spanish accent. He later revealed he was Puerto Rican.
Upon meeting these two, I thought of Will and Jaden Smith in the movie The Pursuit of Happyness. He was very protective of his child and we could all tell how much it burned him to know he couldn’t provide for his son, Ariel Jr., the way he always wanted to.
We talked to Punch for a half hour, covering a wide variety of topics like boxing, Ariel Jr.’s favorite sports, New York City and simply life in general.
This man was deep. Deeper than the sharp calluses and scars etched in his face from a long career in the ring.
Punch taught us a lot that night. He kept telling us that he was a smart guy and he certainly proved it by the end of the conversation. More than anything, he wanted us to have the mentality of a boxer.
“Never let ‘em knock you down. And if they do, don’t show that it affected you,” he said. At several points in the conversation, he scolded his son for being disrespectful and reminded him to always treat women with the utmost respect.
We hugged Punch and his son goodbye, but he halted us in our tracks.
“If it isn’t too much trouble, would you mind saying a prayer for my son and I?” I happily obliged and we all squeezed hands and came together as one.
Sitting on the plane on our way back to Tampa, I thought of all the wonderful memories in New York: Broadway shows, sightseeing, shopping. Ultimately though, the memory that shone brightest in my mind was meeting Ash, Punch and Juice.Meeting them was a reminder that we’re all connected in this harsh world. No matter where someone is, they always have a story.
Griffin Guinta can be reached at griffin.guinta@theminaretonline.com