A Bum I knew.

When I was going to college in Boston I remember many homeless panhandlers. At the time, I used to walk where I needed to go, or take the subway, so I was afforded a somewhat upfront view of some of these people. Many of them became sort of familiar, because they would be in the same places all the time. One guy used to stand outside the Store24 (a convenience chain) with his hand held out all day long. He never said anything, or did anything except stand with his hand out; and I mean every day, rain or shine, just like most of us go to work. We used to joke that he was probably a millionaire, but actually, I doubt it. I’m reminded of the 1970's Robert Klein comedy routine where he describes a seemingly homeless guy who acts so pathetic that he feels inclined to write the guy a check, but then catches him loading his panhandling gear into a Buick Riviera at the end of the day.

In the past I’ve had the opportunity to know some panhandlers as human beings. I call it an opportunity only because of the life experience gained. One guy I met in a place where I did my laundry in Central Square in Cambridge, MA. (It looks like the laundry was replaced by a Starbucks in the background; oh well.) There was always a bunch of street people who used to come in from the cold for a while there, sipping “Wild Irish Rose” (in a skirt) as discretely as they could, and keeping their own society in hushed whispers and mutterings. One day while I was sitting on a washing machine pretending not to listen and observe them, an older man came up to me and began to talk. Not that it really matters, but I won’t use his real name; we’ll call him August West. Some of you will recognize that name from another tale of the down and out.

“Hey.” He said, as he came up to me. “You look like a nice young man from a good family.”

“I guess.” I said with slight apprehension, wondering where this was going to lead, and eyeing the door. August seemed a little better kept than the usual gang that was around; neater, hair not too unkempt, and his clothes were shabby, but not entirely unclean. I later found out he was sort of a leader/father figure amongst the bums, and claimed to actually work part time sweeping the floor at M.I.T. which was just down the road.

“Well not me. Not me.” He then proceeded to tell a tale of woe, involving children who left him high and dry, numerous layoffs and firings, his oppression from “The Man” and society in general, various women problems, etc. I don’t know how much of this was true and how much was formulated in preparation for what I knew was going to be the inevitable question about giving him a “loan”. He talked with the smoothness of a practiced opportunist whose life was spent on the street, but had a certain sense of being a real person underneath. I did not give him any money, only conversation. This went on sporadically for a few months, whenever I needed to do laundry. He made his last attempt of trying to get money out of me by trying to sell me a ring he had for $70.00; hunger in his eyes as he told me what a great deal I would be getting. I did not go for it. Street mentality is fascinating in some ways. Anyone I’ve ever run across who has lived this way is always so proud of themselves, to the point of talking about it for days, when they buy something for 5 dollars and sell it for 6.

Even though the thought of this guy from 20 years ago still fills me with certain sadness, and I did want to help him in some way, but I knew even back then that it would have been a mistake. His years of street living and his almost hard-wired sense of opportunity would have drained almost anyone dry eventually; and the kind of help that a person like that needs cannot come from one individual. There’s a reason why you don’t feed the bears and the stray dogs. I’m glad to have interacted with him on a human level though, even while keeping my distance as much as possible. I think he enjoyed our conversations, and probably couldn’t fathom the fact that someone was actually being nice to him, which is why he kept approaching me; but still couldn’t help falling into his begging and always-looking-for-the-slightest-opportunity habits. I guess that's how you survive when you're on the street.

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