On a Saturday morning in early September, 68-year-old Richard McLachlan stands at the center of a Brooklyn-bound Q train, looking up and down the subway car. A couple of dozen riders stare at their phones or lean their heads back against the windows, their eyes closed. McLachlan clears his throat and starts shouting.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I do not want any money from you, but I would really appreciate a few minutes of your time and attention," he says.
McLachlan is meticulously shaven. The New Zealand native wears a clean, collared shirt and fine leather shoes. He hardly fits the bill for New York City desperate, yet his message is one of heartfelt urgency.