We were gassing up at the Allsup’s on Mills and Hot Springs when a woman who would normally have ignored me suddenly made me feel important.
It’s the kind of importance one feels when sought out by a child who thinks of you only as a person who’ll order magazine subscriptions or “buy a raffle.” A raffle, by the way, is the money-making procedure, including a drawing. A ticket or coupon is not a raffle.
Now I don’t take any of this personally, yet I’ll probably hear from some parents of fund-raising kids who will aver that their child isn’t that way. They really dig adults. Yeah, right.
But this isn’t to complain about being pressured into ordering stuff; rather, it’s about suddenly meaning something to someone else.
Let me explain:
I believe people have become much bolder in recent years. Asking for “spare change” used to be limited to the most popular convenience stores, supermarket entrances and the Spic and Span. “How do I get around this guy almost blocking the door to the popular breakfast place? I have only enough money to buy breakfast. If I give this man a buck or two, I don’t eat. Sure, the ATM’s nearby, but as a matter of principle, I’m not going to create withdrawal symptoms just to have money withdrawn from me.”
All these thoughts generally ensue as one finds a polite way of dodging mendicants. This morning, as I left the downtown restaurant, a man, sitting on the sidewalk, asked me for “spare change, bro.” I kept walking, turned around and said, “Let me get some from the car, bro.”
That usually means “You’re not getting my money.” But sure enough, I reached into the change compartment, grabbed a half dozen quarters and transferred them to the waiting hands of the beggar.
He never revealed what he needed the spare change, bro, for; I didn’t ask.
We’ve all heard tales of how well-heeled some beggars are. Some people, as a matter of course, never part with a penny because “‘those people’ probably have a wad of bills hidden at home.” Good point. Yet, we often see people holding up a piece of cardboard on which is written something like “homeless — will work for food.” “For food,” unfortunately seldom enters the equation. I’m convinced that those who help someone in the Wal-Mart parking lot give coins, not food, and does anyone really find chores for them to perform?
But let’s get back to the young woman at the Allsup’s lot. She stood close to me as I filled my car. Could she have been a former student? Perhaps a distant relative? Her way of establishing eye-contact told me I was about to be approached.
Soon, she asked if I could help with a “dollar to buy some bread for my kids.” I observed two little kids with her, but still I asked, “How do I know you’re not going to spend it on booze or cigarettes?”
I asked that realizing that a loaf of bread and a gallon of milk would cost much more than a dollar. Cigarettes? I’ve lost track of how much they cost, my having quit smoking when a pack of Salems went over a buck.
Well, the young woman was ready for me. I think she knew I was a softie, so when I pulled out two singles, she said, in a way that struck me as well-rehearsed, “If you can give me two dollars, you can give me five?”
“Absolutely not. I’m not in this world to enhance your comfort. I work for my money,” I thought, as I reached for a five anyway. “But I want to see what you buy when you come out.” I added, “If you buy any junk, I’m going to kick your a—.”
And I really used the a-word. Soon, she left the store, swung her plastic bag to expose the bread and milk, glared at me and came just short of flipping me off. She drew her arm back deftly for a windup, but must have thought about it, lest it jeopardize future opportunities.
I haven’t seen her again, but the gesture she almost imparted left me puzzled. Surely she was angry at fate for her having to ask others for funds to buy her daily bread. I suppose she was also angry at me for having the temerity to think my investment would go to buy junk food or booze or cigarettes.
About a month ago, entering Souper Salad in Santa Fe, we got approached by a woman who said she needed money for food. One of us offered to treat her to the all-you-can-eat buffet, but she stammered and said she needed to wait for her husband.
“Bring him along; our treat.”
But apparently a portion of food was no match for a potential few bucks in their pockets, even though the food would probably have lasted longer. We didn’t see the couple again.
A station in Santa Fe, where we often buy gas, apparently comes with beggars as standard equipment. Quite unabashed, young ladies, their cars parked at the pumps, ask if others can help them because they ran out of money and need gas to get to Pueblo, or El Paso.
Usually I’m fueling on a debit card and ask these young ladies to pull up behind my car for a few gallons. All of them appear profusely appreciative. All of them promise to pay me back when they get home. I used to carry a few business cards with my address and phone number and would hand them to the travelers I’d helped.
Did their gratitude ever translate to repayment, a card of thanks or even a simple phone call? Is the food or fuel I provide rather an entitlement, like so any other things? Like free tuition, are things appreciated more when the bro has to work for them? —
The price at the pumps went up again today. That may be a signal for me to put a one-dollar or one-gallon cap on my eleemosynary boons, but at the rate gas is rising, the gallon and the five dollars will soon be the same.