Panhandling “Neighbor”
Saturday, October 25th, 2008On a midnight post-office run (I don’t like to leave Netflix returns in my mailbox; sometimes they get lost) I impulsively stopped for Jack-in-the-Box cheesecake.
Exiting the drive through, I was approached by a panhandler. I shouldn’t have stopped, much less rolled down my window, but I did. He was middle-aged, middle-class, well-kept, well-spoken, and didn’t reek of alcohol or have that gap-toothed meth-head manner to him. (I hate being an easy touch. Dogs, cats, and children pick up on it too.)
“I know you! I’m one of your neighbors, from over there!” — and he points in pretty much the right direction. I hesitate for a moment, thinking, “Well, most of my neighbors are Hispanic, not black…” but I’m more or less sympathetic.
Unfortunately, he runs on:
“Listen, my kid just died, and….”
What? What the fuck? You bring that out, you lay that on me, you damn well better be playing straight.
“What’s the name of the street?” I ask.
His mouth gapes for a moment, then he frowns, and his voice takes on an impatient edge. His middle-class act starts to fray as his script derails.
“I don’t know the name of your street, man! Look, I’m not trying to come across as funny or nothing.” Well, pardon the hell out of me.
“What’s the name of your street, then?”
Long, fumbling pause, then he says a name.
“Never heard of it.” I pull away, and start rolling up the window.
“Hey, man, I got the wrong guy, I’m not trying to come across as funny or nothing…”
On the way back from the post office, there he is, across the street at a filling station, talking to an SUV…
… and pointing in the opposite direction.
You asshole, I think.
You pimp your dead kid to get a fix?
You worthless piece of shit.
Your dead child?

