The Subway Chronicles - Title, by Author

Barefoot Jesus
by Aaron Kidd

I called him Barefoot Jesus.

He was a short, thin man with tanned, leathery skin. His hair was long, greasy, and thinning. He had a crazy, furry beard that sprouted down past his stomach, and he usually wore an old gray sweatshirt and
blue jeans rolled up to the middle of his calves. His naked feet stomped back and forth on top of an opened section of The New York Times as he strummed away on an old acoustic guitar.

Each night he sang the same, seemingly endless song to a handful of people waiting in the Times Square subway station for a train to take them home to Queens. The song had only one word that he repeated over and over:

"Thanks, thanks, thanks. Thanks, thanks, thanks. Thanks, thanks, thanks. Thanks, thanks, thanks…"

Barefoot Jesus would sing the word three times and then switch his chord and key for the next three. After he went through a series of four changes, the whole thing would start all over again.

He stood close to the platform edge with his back facing a beam. His shoes and socks sat neatly next to a closed guitar case that had "Jesus Loves You" and "Trust in the Lord" stickers all over it. A large stack of hand-written fliers were piled on top.

I had watched Barefoot Jesus perform his routine hundreds of times, but I only saw someone give him money once. He had just arrived and was sitting on the floor taking off his shoes. A middle-aged man, who was walking by, tossed a dollar at his feet. Barefoot Jesus stood up with one shoe on and ran after the man to hand him a flier.

Obviously, money wasn't his ultimate goal. There was no tip bucket set out. He didn't even leave his guitar case open. Barefoot Jesus had a message and a purpose. Something happened in this man's life that motivated him to sing out his thanks to Jesus all night long below the streets of Times Square.

Often, people would laugh at Barefoot Jesus' efforts. When this happened, his singing would become quieter, his strumming slowed, and his stomping would be reduced to a tiny shuffle. His eyes darted back and forth, nervously. Gradually, his confidence returned and things would go back to normal.

I liked knowing that Barefoot Jesus would always be there. My day felt incomplete on the few occasions that he wasn't. I'd watched him arrive on the platform around midnight a countless number of times and often wondered how long he continued to sing after I left. My question was answered early one morning while returning home from a night in Atlantic City. It was past 5 a.m. when I walked down into the subway and found Barefoot Jesus standing with his guitar around his neck. He was eating corn straight out of a can with a plastic spoon. He went back to performing as soon as he was finished.

One night, I was standing on the platform waiting for the 'W' and listening to Barefoot Jesus when a group of teenagers showed up. They snickered and laughed at him. A boy from the group stood directly in front of Barefoot Jesus, pointed into his face, and told him how much he sucked. Then started to mock Barefoot Jesus by playing air guitar, stomping, and moaning. The hysterical laughter of his friends echoed throughout the entire station. People from the other platforms looked our way to see what was going on. Barefoot Jesus' face grew bright red, but he didn't falter. He kept singing and stomping, trying his best to ignore the ridicule.

I decided at that moment that Barefoot Jesus deserved for something good to happen to him after tolerating humiliation like that. I reached for my wallet and opened it. The light from an approaching
train entered the station. The only cash I had with me was a twenty dollar bill. I looked up and saw the breeze from the arriving train blow his long beard into his face. I walked over, placed the twenty on
top of his guitar case, and hurried into the train.

I was surprised to see Barefoot Jesus run into the train right after me. He handed me one of his fliers and simply said "Please read this." As soon as the paper was in my grasp, I heard a sound recognizable to subway riders all over the world:

BING BONG.

The doors closed, trapping Barefoot Jesus inside. He made a futile effort to spread them apart with his fingers, but the train moved slowly out of the station. My mouth hung open as I watched him stare
out the window as his socks, shoes, guitar case, and other belongings abandoned on the platform disappeared from sight.

When nothing but black was visible out the windows, he pivoted toward the middle of the car. His bare feet looked awkward against the trash-littered floor. I tried to express how sorry I was, but he didn't
answer back. He just stood there with an embarrassed look on his red, leathery face.

I told him that he could get off at 49th Street and take the next train back to Times Square, but then I remembered that in order to do that he'd have to exit the station, walk up the stairs, cross the street, and pay a two dollar fare.

Then, magically, the worry on his face vanished. He shuffled to the other end of the car and picked up a copy of the Daily News someone had left on a seat. He looked through it carefully as the train pulled
in amongst the orange/red brick walls of the 49th Street station. I assumed he would get off to make his way back to his belongings, but he kept his focus on the newspaper. A satisfied expression came over his face. He placed the opened newspaper onto the floor, stepped onto it, and strummed his familiar chords.

"Thanks, thanks, thanks. Thanks, thanks, thanks. Thanks, thanks, thanks. Thanks, thanks, thanks…"

He played and sang all the way into Queens without stopping. When we finally arrived at the end of the line, Barefoot Jesus stopped singing and sat down. The doors opened and everyone got out except for us and a couple of sleeping homeless men. I approached him one more time and attempted to express how sorry I was about what happened. He looked up at me and said that Jesus would have never allowed this to happen unless there was a reason. He was convinced that someone on that train
needed to hear his message tonight. He also said that Jesus would protect his things until he got back.

I wished him a goodnight and he reminded me to read his flier. I promised him that I would and left the train to walk home to my apartment in near Astoria Park.

After I got home, I sat in my room and read his flier from start to finish. Some of the handwriting was difficult to read, but I was able to decipher most of it. It explained how he had suffered for many
years with a deadly skin disease because he wasn't a virgin before he got married. The disease was miraculously healed after he pledged his life to the Christ. It explained how people who wish to rid their
homes of evil must sprinkle the floors of their kitchen with flour (not self-rising) and keep it there until it turns dark. Afterwards, it must be swept up and buried in the yard of a Catholic (not Protestant) church.

The most interesting thing about the flier was the part where he explained why he stomps on a newspaper while he performs. He picks a particular story or article that deals with some type of evil
happening in the world and stomps on it as a symbolic gesture to show his condemnation of the evil act.

Barefoot Jesus wasn't on the platform the next night. I worried that he had returned to the station to find all of his things missing and lost all faith in God. My fears were unfounded, though. He was back
in action the night after that with all of his stuff in tow - nothing had been stolen. I noticed that the headline he was stomping on had something to do with the war in Iraq.

Barefoot Jesus just one of dozens of subway musicians, panhandlers, and other familiar people I ran into each day. I moved away from New York in late 2003 and I miss them all very much.

So, if you find yourself in Times Square station after midnight, go down to the Queens bound N,R,W platform and listen to Mr. Barefoot play.

And be sure to take one of his fliers. It will make his day.

Aaron Kidd is a former talk radio producer who is currently studying print journalism at the University of South Carolina. A former resident of New York City, Aaron writes a monthly column for ebjapanese.com and frequent editorials for Aftonbladet, the largest newspaper in Scandinavia.