I’ve always wondered about the homeless. I mean, nobody wants to be a sucker. But nobody wants to be a miser either, or at least I don’t. So every time I see someone on the side of the road by a freeway onramp I feel the fight inside me resume, naiveté vs. pragmatism, urban legends about bands of bums that live in expensive neighborhoods vs. the imploring eyes and reality of a human being, feet away, begging.
What would that be like? Opening yourself up to the pity, eyes and aspersions of the passing public, everyone and everything invited to observe you in this space you’ve ended up in. Your world is the people happening past, and their reactions to your face are how you construct your views of yourself and the world. For somebody like me, what would an experience like that feel like?
Well, you could have trouble at first, with getting into character. The game of deceit is such a temptress of giggles and smiles.
You could sit down any old place, in front a grocery store for example, cross your legs and realize how cold cement is. Then you might set out your little tin can and prop up a cardboard sign you agonized over writing from the warmth of your apartment.
You could close your eyes, bow your head and pretend to sleep, half from desperation not to make eye contact with anyone.
You could realize how egocentric each sound becomes in danger and darkness, how every rustle and every footprint are suspect, representing some living thing that sees you, considers you, and then does something to you, whether to ignore, judge, pity or pardon.
You could feel a slight shake as your head hangs down and to the side, your neck aching, and mutter an amazed thank you as a girl in brown boots presses a crumbled five-dollar bill into your palm with a warmth that makes you genuinely want to cry.
Yeah, you could learn a lot of things. Who knows, might even do you good.
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