The Jerry McAuley Water Street Mission, New York City. Photograph: Viviane Moos/CORBIS

On a raw afternoon in February 2005, I entered St. Francis House, a day shelter near the Boston Common. I passed through its doors regularly, but always before as a trustee attending monthly board meetings. This time, I was part of the crowd of homeless men and women who were there for a hot meal. It was nearly 1:00, and I had not eaten in 15 hours. I wondered if any of the employees would recognize me. But none did. I was now one among hundreds, invisible.

In the cafeteria line beside me, a man stared down at the floor tiles, his brow furrowed as if he were solving a puzzle. He wore a plastic bag around his head and a tattered hooded gray coat. The New Balance sneakers on his feet were long past their running days. Hunched over, he mumbled, “I wish I could find the two people who born me, ’cause I’d kill them.” Nobody else said much. In fact, there was a surprising silence in the room. As I looked around, most people were waiting with their heads down. Many seemed asleep.

Lunch that day was Swedish meatballs, mashed potatoes, buns, and a Devil Dog for dessert. With my tray full, I found a table with one seat left. No one looked up from eating as I sat down. No one spoke. When I asked what time breakfast was the next day, no one answered.

After lunch, keeping out of the cold became my goal. I remembered that St. Francis House had a mezzanine where guests could sit, and I went in and found an empty plastic chair. There were some 50 other people in this space, and the same overwhelming quiet as in the cafeteria. Next to me sat a distinguished-looking man, gray bearded and impeccably dressed in a black overcoat, red stocking hat, and matching red gloves. He began to bellow in rhythmic, mellow tones, “Jesus Christ loves me, cops are rats, and rats like D-Con. Why won’t they let me sleep on the grass? Always harassing me. Never married. No. I never married.” Across from him a motherly looking middle-aged woman was staring at a young puffy-eyed pregnant woman.

“Get off the coke,” she said to the young woman. “It’s hurting your baby.”

The mezzanine closed at 2:45, so all of us moved into the cold. I had lined up a place to sleep, at a veterans’ shelter near City Hall, but its doors wouldn’t open until 5:00. I spotted the man who mumbled about killing his parents and asked him where he was sleeping that night. “On the island,” he muttered.

“How far away?” I asked.

“Have to walk an hour to check in.”

“Is it safe there?”

“People fight sometimes.” He continued ambling down Boylston Street. Unsure of where to go, I followed. Feeling somehow connected to him I asked, “Are you going to be all right?” No response. I asked again. He shuffled off, blending with the gray of the streets. I was on my own.

I wandered the city, poking into shops, without checkbook or wallet. My left knee throbbed painfully—an injury from the previous week’s aerobics class. I remembered seeing benches in the T station at Filene’s Basement, but the seats turned out to be on the other side of the token turnstile. I passed my stockbroker’s office on Broad Street and thought about going in, but was too embarrassed. Head down, no longer looking at passersby, I kept walking.

Finally, at 5:00 (by the watch I’d neglected to take off), I signed in at the veterans’ shelter. The cafeteria was a large, sterile-looking room with a dozen or so tables and uncomfortable plastic chairs. A slight, tightly wound guy sat down beside me; I could smell the tobacco on him. “How you doin’ man?” he asked. Before I could open my mouth, he started a rapid staccato: “I’m Danny. Get a cot yet? Life is great, just came by to see if my old friends are doing okay. Lived here for about six months. On my own now. Live with my mother. Doing great. You a Vietnam vet? I did two tours in Nam.” He pointed to his forehead, then his neck. “I got scars to prove it. Got them on my hands too. Hey, I did better than my buddy, at least. I came home. Waiting for disability from the VA. The bastards. Live with my mother. Wife divorced me nine years ago. Said she couldn’t take it anymore. I’m bipolar. Feel great.”

“Do you take your meds?” I asked.

“No, been off them for years, feel great, much better since I stopped. I’ve been off the booze too. I tell you, my kid started with that stuff. Told him I’d kick his ass if he didn’t get off it. Know what? He’s straight. Doing good. You got kids?” he asked.

“Yes, five,” I replied.

“Five,” he laughed. “Leave the old lady alone, will you? Going outside for a butt. You want one?” No chance to reply. “See ya,” he said.

I joined the line of men forming for dinner. Soon I had a tray of shepherd’s pie, fruit cocktail, a roll, Kool-Aid, and an oatmeal cookie (one per guest). After dinner there was an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting on one side of the room. Employees swept up and the rest of us waited around as men told horrific personal stories. Then another line, this one for a clean sheet and pillowcase. The first men through set up army-style cots in the cafeteria’s far corners, as if to gain protection on two sides, at least. Why? My mind started to race; I’d heard stories of assaults in shelters. I looked for a reassuring face and settled on a heavyset man who appeared to be about 25. He was dressed in black jeans, a black jacket, and a black stocking hat, and the day before I would have stayed clear of him on the street. But he seemed calm and self-contained and I walked over and stood near him quietly until he noticed me. “Is it safe here?” I asked timidly.

“Sure. You’ll be okay.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “First time here, man? Vietnam?” he asked. Then he added, “I did Iraq. Get your sheets. I’ll help you set up.” He unfolded my cot. Relieved, I thanked him. “No problem, man.”

I wondered about the people around me. Nothing was easy for them. They waited, they walked, they hungered. For me, this would be a 24-hour experience; begun that morning, it would end the next. How long would it be for them? As I listened to conversations around me, I realized that many of these men worked, but they didn’t make enough to pay rent. One talked about holding down a 30-hour-a-week job at McDonald’s and living in a car before he came into the shelter.

A man sitting on the cot next to mine was munching microwave popcorn, and the smell drove me crazy. I had to have some. He directed me to the vending machines at the shelter’s entrance and soon I was staring at popcorn bags tucked behind a protective glass shield. Two men in their mid-twenties came up. They were talking about the classes they were taking at UMass–Boston. I asked how they liked their courses. One said, “Great, man, I love my professor, he’s cool.” I wanted to tell him that I had once taught at the Naval Academy in Annapolis, but he probably would have thought I was delusional. The other, perhaps sensing my discomfort, said, “Hungry, man?”

“No,” I lied.

“Want my candy bar, my chips?” he asked. I grabbed the chips. Why the kindness? I was beginning to admire the men around me. They seemed to take care of one another.

The cafeteria was filling with cots. There must have been 150 of them. By 8:45, many men were already asleep. I drifted off but was soon awakened. Beside me I heard someone say, “Mike, you have got to control your anger. It’s going to get you in trouble.” I tossed and turned for the rest of the night.

When the overhead fluorescent lights were flipped on at 5:15 a.m., I woke up for good. People were already lining up for breakfast. Danny was standing a few feet in front of me. He seemed embarrassed to see me. Wasn’t he living at his mother’s place?

Six A.M., and i was back on the street. it was dark. The wind numbed my face. I decided to make my way to St. Francis House. But I came upon the Parker House, a hotel where my wife and I had stayed several times. The lobby was full of comfortable chairs, and I couldn’t resist a chance to sit. The bell captain appeared. He asked, “Can I help you?”

“No,” I replied. “I’m fine, just catching my breath.”

“Are you a guest here?” he inquired.

“No, but I have stayed here several times.” I added, somewhat pathetically, “My brother even got married here.”

Taking pity on me, I suppose, he said, “Stay a few minutes, but then you will have to move on.” I thanked him for the respite. Several minutes later, I could see him approaching from the other end of the lobby. So as not to embarrass either one of us, I quietly slipped out the door.

My needs had become very basic: warmth, rest, food. St. Francis House was a few blocks further. The chairs inside weren’t like those at the Parker House, but at least I wouldn’t be cold. When I got there, people were waiting in line on the sidewalk. I was tired of waiting in line. I pulled on the door, but it was locked. Inside, the security guards were casually conversing with one another. I pounded on the door. Someone nearby said to me, “Relax man, it doesn’t open ’til seven.” I hustled over to the Chinatown T station, and two flights down I stood outside the token booth for warmth. Passengers came and went. No one seemed to notice me.

Right at 7:00 I returned to the shelter. Many people from the day before were there—the man in the red gloves, the puffy-faced pregnant woman, the man who wanted to kill his parents. The breakfast line didn’t seem to be moving. Someone in the kitchen called upstairs for another server. A second call was made. Hesitantly, I moved to the head of the line.

“I’m a board member,” I said. “Can I help?” The cook gave me a quizzical look. Again I said, “I’m really a board member here. Can I help you serve?” The cook replied, “Wash your hands.” Soon I was doling out oatmeal and oranges.

At first I didn’t talk or even look at the guests. After a while I started to engage them. “Thanks for coming. Have a nice day.” I felt better having something to do, but was soon relieved of my duties. I thanked the cook. He searched my face and said, “What did you say your name was?”

Jim Barry ’66 taught leadership and ethics at the United States Naval Academy from 1989 to 1996. He lives in Chestertown, Maryland, and develops real estate in Boston.