Tuesday, June 5, 2012
When you hold up a sign that says ANYTHING HELPS... I take it to mean anything.
I offer a bag of Sour Cream Baked Lays leftover from lunch. Get hit with a dismissive 'thanks but no thanks' wave. Feel unjustifiably snubbed. Like sticking your hand out for a high five that never comes. Waiiiit for it.... But don't. Because it's never coming. And now you look like an idiot.
Forgive my callous heart, but cheeseburgers, petty cash & lotto tickets were not specified. Look down. Your piece of cardboard says a-n-y-t-h-i-n-g. Yes, I see you have no teeth. You're hungry enough, you find a way to gum down a bag of artificially-flavored potato crisps.
(Steps off soapbox and fast forwards to Tuesday).
Morning drive. Same intersection, different guy.
This one's juggling.
I'm intrigued.... for long enough to forget what happened the first (and last) time I (sort of) tried to help the homeless in this EXACT SPOT.
How do panhandlers determine spots? Is there a panhandling hierarchy? A calling of dibs? A ferocious three rounds of Rock/Paper/Scissors? This is me being genuinely curious. Not an insensitive bourgeois betch. And you know why I'm allowed to ask?
Because I did the math.
Let's say the stoplight at this particular intersection changes 30 times in an hour. (That being a generous underestimation). Let's also say one Good Samaritan passerby each traffic cycle forks over a dollar bill. Just one. Juggles pockets thirty bucks... in an HOUR. If he's hustling and puts in a full eight, he banks $240 a day... $1200 a week... $57,600 a year. That's with a month-long vacation.
You're living that large while spending your days shirtless on a tumped-over bucket - I can't even blame you for not taking my Baked Lays. You should be buying me a bag of Baked Lays. And I should be learning how to juggle.