I've never seen cheekbones on a cat before. Cruella De Ville has softer lines. Any animal seems out of place inside a hotel lobby, but this particular cat would only look natural inside a death camp. The gaunt animal stares at a young tourist eating her salad from its plastic oyster shell. His steady gaze casts a spell. She puts a chunk of chicken on the floor. He stretches his neck out and delicately eats the morsel. She and I look at each other and then down at the cat. We share a moment of pity.

Giving up the scarce meat in her salad is a generous sacrifice. She's in New York City on a budget or she wouldn't be staying here. Animals like this only exist to me on television where I can switch the channel when I get uncomfortable. I look away, but am drawn back. Can my morbid curiosity kill a cat?

When the woman is done eating, the cat rises and turns away. The skeletal cat's hind legs are misshapen; his hips disjointed. Walking looks awkward and painful. He makes his way over to a door that leads to the laundry facilities. Again he waits for opportunity. The moment someone opens the door to come out, the cat hobbles in. The wretched feline is a combination of Tennessee Williams' Blanche DuBois from "Streetcar" and Laura (Blue Roses) from "Glass Menagerie." He depends on the kindness of others.

The cat is part of an odd cast of residents who live full-time at this Bowery hostel. I want pictures of them all. I'd pop for a souvenir program if there was one, but this is no Broadway musical. It is a virtual Who's Who of misfortune and physical oddities.

This is one of the few remaining flophouses in the Bowery. It was originally built to house railway workers in the early 1900's. Only white men were allowed to lodge here then, which is where it gets its name, Whitehouse Hotel. It evolved into a hostel in a gentrifying neighborhood. I am waiting with a friend whose family will bravely pioneer here this evening to avoid exorbitant NYC hotel costs. Most guests are young foreigners who don't plan on spending much time in their lattice-ceiling, plywood-door cubicles. There will be no mint on the pillows. Bed bugs maybe.

A separate floor is reserved for permanent residents; mostly strays and society's dregs. The cat and these tenants are remnants of what the Bowery used to be. They're running out of space as pricey eateries and flashy clubs take over their turf. This juxtaposition allows me a secure peek into a declining world.

In this Kafkaesque lobby, one freak's exit is another freak's entrance. A man with a severely crossed eye comes through the laundry room door, paying no attention to the crippled cat moving unsteadily past him. The sick cat's timing is precise. He moves slowly, but the door is slower.

The man takes stock of everyone in the lobby. It is impossible to tell if he looks directly at me, but I gather I am more of a novelty than the resident cat. I deaden my expression to appear nonchalant. Does his brain cancel out the skewed eye or combine the two perspectives into some kind of M.C. Escher view of life? Does the crooked cat appear normal to him? I look away, pretending to dig in my purse. At least I could stare at the cat.

Right on cue, an African American man wheels by with exposed, brown stumps resembling sausages, protruding from frayed, cut-off pants. Despite the ninety-degree heat, the uncovered flesh seems obscene. A veteran? A diabetic amputee? He rolls around the room with ease, totally comfortable with himself and his distinctive physique. He knows the man in the soiled t-shirt filling the vending machine. I want them to say something revealing...drop a nugget of their lives in front of me. I would devour it like the starving cat eating the scraps of chicken.

My friend stowed her family's luggage so it's time to go. Back on the street, we hail a cab headed north to go see "Wicked." It can't possibly be more captivating than the hostel lobby. I am better off, not better than the people there and I am not proud of my arrogant pity. For all the sights and sounds of New York City, I relish the idea of telling people about this place and its collection of anomalies. This is no place like home.

Reveling in the comfort of the air-conditioned cab, I share a story about someone I know back in Chicago who should have taken a cab late one night instead of driving herself home. While driving she makes a point of ridiculing the car in front of her, "Will you look at that guy? He's weaving all over the road!"

She's totally amused until she squeals, "Oh my god, it's me! I'm the one weaving!"

And I am the Bowery freak.