Beggar version 2

I’ve always wondered about giving money to the homeless. I mean, nobody wants to be a sucker. But nobody wants to be heartless either, or at least I don’t. So every time I see someone on the side of the road by a freeway onramp I don’t know what to do. I remind myself of urban legends about bands of bums living in expensive neighborhoods but I’ve never been able to peacefully ignore the imploring eyes and reality of a human being, feet away, begging.

So I decided to try it. I called my boyfriend and told him the idea and he just chuckled. I could see him in my mind shaking his head as told me he’d help. I planned out exactly what I would wear all that week, my paint splattered oversize navy blue sweats with black rubber lace-up boots, the type that could double for army combats boots if they had a mind to. On top I layered a faded black hoody underneath a thick cotton zip-up jacket that barely fit over it. I hid my hair under a frazzled blue beanie and put my hood on overtop. I didn’t know I was ready until I came out into the living room. As a girl from next door walked into the apartment she asked if I was homeless. I replied with an enthusiastic “Thank you! Just what I was going for!” 

Walking up to the front of the store was terrifying. I slowed my steps and tried to think of every sad thing I’d ever experienced to calm the jitters and giggles threatening to give me away. It was your average grocery store, with the exit and entrance doors only separated by a few feet of concrete wall, just enough room for two garbage cans and one medium size girl, cross-legged with a cardboard sign and empty cool whip container. To be as honest and ethical as possible I simply wrote, “Hungry and Cold” on my sign. My object in this experiment was never to trick people, although I realized that would be necessary to have an authentic experience. I wasn’t going to say anything that wasn’t true and I wasn’t trying to steal. What I wanted wasn’t money. I wanted knowledge, maybe even a little wisdom if there was any of that going around.

The cement was colder than I had anticipated and I huddled in on myself, lowering my head as far as it would go and crossing my arms across my chest to keep out the cold. I let myself hang, pretending to sleep as I listened carefully to each sound. When your heart is beating a mile a minute every rustle and footfall are suspect, representing some living thing out there in the darkness. 
I have never felt so exposed in my whole life. 
It was like one of those crazy dreams where you find yourself in public wearing absolutely nothing and with no power to do anything about it.

I started wondering if I was going to make anything at all when I heard the first jangle of coins clash as they hit the bottom of my plastic bowl. I muttered a muted thank you as the footsteps retreated, never raising my head but feeling a strange constriction around my heart. It was no more than a dollar, but I felt a curious swelling of emotions. My analytical mind descended on this surprising development, trying to trace its roots and dissect its meaning or significance. As I felt people passing by, following the trail of their footsteps with my mind, I willed each passerby to stop, to pause and make the decision that I was a human being. I wasn’t just another garbage can sitting on the pavement. I was human. I was alive. I wanted them to recognize that. It wasn’t money they were giving me, it was an acknowledgement that I existed and that I had a part in their world.

I felt a small shudder as a hand gently shook my shoulder. Reflexively I uncrossed my arms and felt a petite hand press a crumbled five dollar bill into mine. I mustered a soft but heartfelt ‘thank you’ as the two soft brown boots walked away. The bill remained encased in my fist as I returned to mock sleeping position, a cacophony of emotions playing in my mind.

The next shake took me by surprise as well, and shook me out of my reverie.

“I’m sorry but you can’t stay here,” said a young voice, I’m guessing the supervisor on duty. “Can you look me in the eye?” he asked.

I slightly lifted my chin but I couldn’t meet his eyes and my lip quivered as I felt the impulse to cry, like a frightened child.

“Where do you live?”

“The Provo area…” I murmured as I slid out of the cross legged position and picked up my pitiful equipment. I had to go or I knew I’d lose it.

“I’m sorry!” he called as I made my way down the sidewalk towards the street.

My getaway car picked me up as I rounded the corner.  I looked over my shoulder and then hopped in, hoping no one who gave me money saw me switch back into a person of means.

“How much did you make?” my boyfriend asked, grinning.

“How long was I out there?” I responded as I looked into my collection bin for the first time. There was one roll of dollars and a scattering of coins. “It can’t be more than ten bucks,” I said.

“You were only out there about twenty minutes.”

“Really?”

I made a total of $8.80 in twenty minutes, which if you do the math means I was making $26.40 an hour,  or would have if I’d lasted that long. I guess Friday night would probably be considered prime time and that needs figure into my conclusions as well.  Beggars can make a killing, but somehow that doesn’t affect my original question.

Will I give in the future? Yes. Not so much because I can sympathize now and not because I feel like they deserve it. I just can’t afford to forget that anyone is a human being. That would hurt me more than it could ever hurt them.