The homeless are back. Perhaps they never went away but just hid in crevices for a few years. In any case, the old alkies and druggies and crazies and down-on-their-luckers are everywhere. They hover over half-eaten plates on the tables of the luxe outdoor café that now line Bowery and ask diners, “Are you going to eat that?”
And the younger set, known as crusties, are interspersed among the oldtimers, fighting for space on the pavement, staking out territory with flattened cardboard boxes and sprawling on them with their dogs.
When they move off, they leave behind graffiti and mysterious runes letting us know they’ve been there. This tableau, looking like a makeshift memorial, sat outside the building next door all Sunday.