Stand clear of the closing doors

My high heels taught me to deftly navigate the New York subways. One obvious reason is that the height of one's shoe is inversely proportional to the number of blocks it will walk. In the mental triage of the stiletto wearer, "balance," "motion" and "other" are considered — in that order. Thus, distinctions like uptown and downtown — definitely categorized as "other" — usually suffered while I tried to avoid eating subway rail at every breeze.

There were other casualties, too: punctuality, patience, words with more than four letters. And though he escaped with his life, I should include one sorry fellow who offered to "help a damsel out." I replied by removing the three-inch spike on my foot and waving it vaguely in his direction to demonstrate that his temple was a much easier target than I was. By the end of the summer, I had visited several boroughs, logged hours of unnecessary travel time and nearly smote a Good Samaritan. The heels contributed. But to be fair, so did a pathological need for self-sufficiency.

Maybe that's why I am still profoundly conflicted when someone asks me for help on the subway. As I grew to know and appreciate each line, I also became intimately acquainted with other frequent riders. Foghorn, for instance, haunted the 4, 5, 6 line out of Grand Central and usually headed south, exiting before Bowling Green. He's tall — well over six feet — and rather hulking even beneath clothes that sagged on his frame. It was after hearing his booming voice that I imagined a name to stand in for the one he never offered.

As if to fuel Foghorn's impressive projection, quick breaths punctuated each word. "We. all. out. here. just. trying. to. get. by," he thundered every time. And then, with dignity, he confessed to feeling ashamed of his appeal to fellow riders. His last words as he passed through the car were to thank the crowd — regardless of our response — and ask that we show compassion to others like him.

I know at least two of those others. Foghorn has counterparts on the West Side, who I'd see during my commute to and from Harlem on the 2, 3 line. The Poet appeared most often just as I'd left my office on 125th and Lenox, ostensibly to catch the rush-hour commuters. He always shuffled into the car. I could never tell if it was from pain or exhaustion, and it was difficult not to wince at the frailty of his relatively young frame. He was skeletal, smelly and sallow. Yet his one-poem repertoire was beautiful. In a lyrical appeal for compassion, he told the story of his descent into the subways; he didn't need to say it, but it was also the story of how he became invisible.

Then there was Grey Sweatshirt. The story changes with Grey Sweatshirt. She was in bad shape — so waifish it seemed impossible that she could stand, with eyes that never focused and a shrill and disconcerting voice. The first time I saw her, I offered my unopened Snapple. The second time, I had no food and convinced myself that giving her money would only trap her in "dependency."

The third time, as she entered the car, an animated man with hard eyes and a smug grin began heckling her.

"I know her!" he shouted over her wavering voice. "She's lying. All lies. That's not her name, and I know her." He'd practically leapt from his seat in glee. "Don't bother giving her anything."

As other passengers and I diverted our eyes uncomfortably, a rotund, white-haired man did something bold. "You leave her alone!" he nearly screamed.

The heckler then went wild, threatening to bash the objector's head in with his foot. But Mr. White Hair indignantly elbowed through the crowded car to stuff a dollar into the cup of Grey Sweatshirt, who for a moment had become even more invisible.

She left the car. The white-haired man got off at the next stop. The heckler looked around for approval.

I remember the first time I came into contact with someone like Foghorn, the Poet or Grey Sweatshirt. When I was seven, I went into New York with my parents to see "The Secret Garden" on Broadway. As we exited Penn Station, I glanced down at my Mary Janes; I'd realized that frilly white socks and patent leather shoes meant I was going to church, class picture day or somewhere equally grim. But when I looked down, to my shock, I saw a girl my age and her daddy. They sat on a blanket on the cold sidewalk with a cardboard sign that read "Hungry, Please Help." When my parents couldn't console me with a satisfying explanation, I went home and wrote a story about them.

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I still cross paths with Grey Sweatshirt, the Poet, Foghorn and other anonymous city drifters. Since my Mary Jane days, though, I haven't found these encounters any more comprehensible. I've seen poverty more complicated, more absolute and more baffling than what saddened me at age seven. Yet I feel equally moved now, seeing those who struggle on the New York streets and subways. I vacillate. I worry that my education over the years — in and out of the classroom — has replaced some of my own humanity with cynicism. When Grey Sweatshirt walks by these days, I still don't know what to do. That's another reason my heels come in handy: When Grey Sweatshirt walks by, I look down at them, teetering their way through the subway.