The Cop and the Anthem
On his bench in Madison Square, Soapy shifted uncomfortably. When geese fly
south at night, when women without fur coats treat their husbands kindly, and
when Soapy becomes restless on his bench, you know that winter is near.
A dead leaf fell into his lap—Jack Frost’s calling card. Jack was considerate to
the usual residents of Madison Square, giving fair warning of his arrival. At the
corners of four streets, he handed his message to the North Wind, the servant of
the great outdoors, so that everyone could prepare.
Soapy realized it was time to make plans for the coming cold. He knew he
needed a way to survive the winter, so he fidgeted on his bench.
His winter goals were not extravagant—no dreams of cruises or warm southern
skies. All he wanted was three months on Blackwell’s Island, where he would
have a bed, food, and shelter from the cold. Every year, as wealthier New
Yorkers headed to luxurious destinations, Soapy arranged his own simple
escape to the Island. Now, the time had come.
The night before, he had tried to stay warm with three Sunday newspapers
tucked under his coat, but they failed to block the cold as he slept on his bench.
The Island seemed like the best option. Soapy refused to rely on charity,
believing that legal punishment was kinder than philanthropy. Charity came
with conditions—humiliation, questioning, and sometimes a bath—whereas the
law simply locked you up without meddling in personal matters.
Soapy was ready to get arrested. There were easy ways to do it. One simple plan
was to eat at a fancy restaurant and then declare he had no money. A quick
arrest and a short court session would secure his winter refuge.
Leaving the park, Soapy strolled toward Broadway and stopped at a bright,
elegant café. Wealthy patrons enjoyed fine food and drinks inside. He had
confidence in his appearance—his face was clean-shaven, his coat was decent,
and his tie had been given to him by a kind missionary on Thanksgiving. If he
could reach a table without being noticed, he would be fine. He imagined a meal
of roasted duck, a bottle of wine, cheese, coffee, and a cigar. Not expensive
enough to anger the restaurant, but enough to satisfy him before heading to his
winter home.
On his bench in Madison Square, Soapy shifted uncomfortably. When geese fly
south at night, when women without fur coats treat their husbands kindly, and
when Soapy becomes restless on his bench, you know that winter is near.
A dead leaf fell into his lap—Jack Frost’s calling card. Jack was considerate to
the usual residents of Madison Square, giving fair warning of his arrival. At the
corners of four streets, he handed his message to the North Wind, the servant of
the great outdoors, so that everyone could prepare.
Soapy realized it was time to make plans for the coming cold. He knew he
needed a way to survive the winter, so he fidgeted on his bench.
His winter goals were not extravagant—no dreams of cruises or warm southern
skies. All he wanted was three months on Blackwell’s Island, where he would
have a bed, food, and shelter from the cold. Every year, as wealthier New
Yorkers headed to luxurious destinations, Soapy arranged his own simple
escape to the Island. Now, the time had come.
The night before, he had tried to stay warm with three Sunday newspapers
tucked under his coat, but they failed to block the cold as he slept on his bench.
The Island seemed like the best option. Soapy refused to rely on charity,
believing that legal punishment was kinder than philanthropy. Charity came
with conditions—humiliation, questioning, and sometimes a bath—whereas the
law simply locked you up without meddling in personal matters.
Soapy was ready to get arrested. There were easy ways to do it. One simple plan
was to eat at a fancy restaurant and then declare he had no money. A quick
arrest and a short court session would secure his winter refuge.
Leaving the park, Soapy strolled toward Broadway and stopped at a bright,
elegant café. Wealthy patrons enjoyed fine food and drinks inside. He had
confidence in his appearance—his face was clean-shaven, his coat was decent,
and his tie had been given to him by a kind missionary on Thanksgiving. If he
could reach a table without being noticed, he would be fine. He imagined a meal
of roasted duck, a bottle of wine, cheese, coffee, and a cigar. Not expensive
enough to anger the restaurant, but enough to satisfy him before heading to his
winter home.
