Skrip - tyur' - i - ent: adj. Possessing the violent desire to write.


#311 In which our hero pauses to consider the question posed by a supposedly homeless man.

I work in downtown Cleveland and, like any largish city, there’s a fair number of panhandlers on the sidewalks. Now, it’s tempting to say these people are “homeless,” but you don’t really know, right? I mean, some of them certainly look the stereotypical part: ragged clothes, weathered faces, maybe a hint (or more than a hint) of crazy lurking under the surface… but I’ve never seen anyone actually sleeping on the street around my building, even when I’ve been there late at night. Far as I know, asking for change is their job, and they go home to their apartment at night.

I got hit up by one guy a couple of weeks ago. He didn’t fit the part of shaggy, wild-eyed homeless man, he looked pretty much like any other casually dressed person I pass on the street daily. He was crossed the street and headed toward me, catching my eye. Immediately I’m thinking, “Okay, what’s this dude want?” when he gets close and says, “Hey man, you got a cigarette I can borrow?” This puts me at ease and I tell him no, that I don’t smoke. Then he says, “You got a dollar you can spare?” And for a second I actually consider it! Not because of any altruistic desire to help my fellow man, but because I appreciate his rap: he put me at ease by asking for a smoke, then followed up with the unexpected request for money. Nice work.

But I didn’t give him any money, of course.

I have a pretty strict policy of not giving money to panhandlers. I think I’ve only actually ponied up twice in my life, and in both cases I feared that imminent harm would befall my car or my person.

This morning I was walking out of the parking garage when I saw that one of the regulars on my street was standing right where I’d need to pass. This particular guy is definitely in the “scary homeless” camp; bedraggled, wide, crazy eyes, propensity to shout at people who don’t give him money. This guy once hollered at me from a block away to give him some money, like I was going to go out of my way and hustle over to him to open my wallet.

There’s a couple people walking about three yards in front of me, and he hits them up first. “Hey lady!” He nearly shouts. “Can you give me some money? To get something to eat?” Everyone keeps walking without making eye contact.

It gets to be my turn, and when he asks for money I say, “Can’t help you, buddy.” This is generally what I say, and it usually seems to do the trick and the panhandler in question moves on to his or her next mark. I did throw in the “buddy,” because I was in a good mood.

But instead of moving on, this guy looks me dead in the eye and demands, “Why not?”

And I pause.

I try not to be an asshole to strangers. It’s not like I’ve ever told a homeless person to “Just get a job!” or something like that. So I don’t want to be that guy who just moves on and doesn’t even acknowledge this person’s existence. And while I’m pretty quick on my feet generally, I don’t know what to say. My first thought is to say something like, “I give you money, you’re just going to spend it on booze.” But I don’t say that because what if he really is just looking to get something to eat? And my second thought is, “Why don’t you give this guy a dollar? What’s a buck to you?” In the end, I just put my head down and keep walking.

I’ve been thinking about it since, and I’ve come to the conclusion that the real reason I don’t give any panhandlers money is that I don’t want to contribute to the system. The system where people beg for money on the street and other people actually give it to them, which in turn encourages more people to beg for money in the streets. I don’t want to be approached for a handout on the street, and I don’t think anyone else (I’m thinking of women, mostly) should be made to feel threatened on the street. If someone really is homeless, there are local outreach programs that can help them—some of them, at least.

At least, that’s how I’ve rationalized it to myself. Maybe the truth is that I’m a racist asshole. I don’t think so, but I’m sure most racist assholes don’t think of themselves that way either.

As I walked away, the guy shouts at me, “When I hit it big in the lottery I bet then you’ll wish you gave me some money!”


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#310 In which our hero give a quick recap of recent events.

 Cat dies

My cat died a couple of weeks ago. He was 17 and, even though he was a terrible pain in my ass who insisted on sleeping on my pillow and waking me up nightly, I was pretty broken up about losing him. He had really been going downhill for the past year, more so then I really allowed myself to acknowledge. I finally had him put to sleep. I’ll write up a proper memorial at some put, but I’m not up to it right now.

Child ages

My oldest turned 8 yesterday. That amazes me. She’s such a smart, beautiful, reasonable little person. I can hardly get my head around the fact that The Scientist and I made her. From scratch.

And she’s a little nerd, too, like her daddy. More than anything she wanted a membership to Club Penguin, this online MMO for kids. We wouldn’t allow it for a long time, figuring she’d just lose interest and then we’re out 30 bucks. But she’s stuck with it, and we finally relented. It comes at the perfect time, with the weather getting colder I won’t have to try to pry her away from the computer, which she will be glued to for months to come. At least six months, since that’s the length of the membership.

Hero frets

There seems to be a bit of an exodus going on at work right now. We had some layoffs recently, which suck but aren’t anything I’m not accustomed to. But more than that, we’ve had several people in the department resign in the last two weeks. It doesn’t really affect me directly, these are people that I didn’t work that closely with. But it does give me pause… why is everyone in such a hurry to get away from this agency? It starts to give life to my growing concern that this place really isn’t as creative as I’d like it to be; and the account services staff seem to be, with a few exceptions, just stuffed suits that don’t know creativity from a hole in the ground. Worrying. Worrying.

That’s it for now. More (lengthy) posts to come.