The Homeless Show
About a year and a half ago, a friend of mine began a live journal, only to post one, long entry about the city, leisure and physical space. One part of the entry is about a particular homeless person that angered my friend so that he (only) half-jokingly wanted to murder him. The "murder act" was so meticulously planned that it was shocking, completely barbaric, obscene, and hilarious. Those close to my friend knew he wouldn't carry his plan out, but we began to question this madness he had developed, which was directed entirely at one homeless person.
I never held the homeless in ill regard. Being a resident of New York City (at the time), I unavoidably encountered homeless people and/or panhandlers on at least a twice-or-thrice-daily basis. If my disposition should have warranted it, I would even give up to a dollar in change if I was approached opportunitively. Gradually, though, my sympathy waned. I stopped giving, and my attitude began to sour slightly, as the attitidues of panhandlers became seemingly more offensive by the week.
They are part of the music of the typically crowded L train as it prowls underneath the East River between Bedford and First Avenues. The slam of the manual sliding car door, the crinkling of a contractor bag unceremoniously dropped on the floor. Countless pairs of eyes roll ceilingward, then, the address!
"EXCUSE ME LADIES AND GENTLEMAN MAY I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE..."
Then the spiel. It doesn't matter what it is. "My house was burned in a blah blah blah!" Or, "I'm not trying to raise money for a basketball blah blah..." Or, "I'm homeless I don't drink or do blah blah I have a family blah blah blah." The main idea is that they are pathetic, and you are on a train full of strangers.
If you find yourself in this "audience," you have a choice to make. You can feign mercy, and turn the man's (or woman's) life around with some permutation of pocket change, or you can play the Scrooge, refuse to give a cent, and make a note to yourself that your soul will burn after you ship out.
If you live in the city, you see the Homeless Show more and more every month. Luckily, most of my commute is spent in my car, with my hands at the wheel and the shifter, alone. So, I don't make it to all of the performances, but I still see the same hosts. One fellow in particular has been at it for a while, is bilingual, and a lock for this years "most ubiquitous panhandler" award. His story never changed, and in my earlier rides I have even given the man change.
Two months ago, he entered the car I was standing in again, from the opposite end door. I was frustrated, tired from walking with a guitar on my back, and I was 36 exits away from my house by the time I would ascend to the street. I was in no mood to give, much less communicate with anyone. He must have smelled it on me, as he came not a foot away from my face, looked at me with eyes as brown as mine, and asked, "Can you spare any change please?"
"Sorry, I have no change," I mumbled, and shook my head.
Immediately his eyebrows furled, and he mumbled back to me, a diatribe. "You're cheap," he said. "You're cheap, and you've been cheap all your life." With this, he moved onto another person, grazing my arm with his.
I don't know exactly what he meant. I didn't know if it was because he remembered me, or if he assumed that I was Jewish, and I didn't know if he had said it out of frustration or out of hatred. What I knew, I realized immediately. This was the first person I have ever met--whom I had ever looked in the eyes, whose flesh and frame I had ever stood before--whom I wanted dead at my hands.
It was the first of that kind of experience for me. I don't recall for how long I genuinely entertained ending that man's life; maybe a car ride, maybe four hours or until my next meal. Surely enough, my anger had subsided just as my generosity had once before. But I finally understood how furious my friend must have felt around the time he had hatched his gruesome murder scheme. It wasn't all funny, it was a little too real.
Neither of us have carried out any sort of atrocity on anybody, vagrant or otherwise. We don't mean to cause harm to any people, but everyone has a fuse with a beginning and an end. And at the ends, anyone is capable of anything, and some sort of hell becomes too near for taste.
I never held the homeless in ill regard. Being a resident of New York City (at the time), I unavoidably encountered homeless people and/or panhandlers on at least a twice-or-thrice-daily basis. If my disposition should have warranted it, I would even give up to a dollar in change if I was approached opportunitively. Gradually, though, my sympathy waned. I stopped giving, and my attitude began to sour slightly, as the attitidues of panhandlers became seemingly more offensive by the week.
They are part of the music of the typically crowded L train as it prowls underneath the East River between Bedford and First Avenues. The slam of the manual sliding car door, the crinkling of a contractor bag unceremoniously dropped on the floor. Countless pairs of eyes roll ceilingward, then, the address!
"EXCUSE ME LADIES AND GENTLEMAN MAY I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE..."
Then the spiel. It doesn't matter what it is. "My house was burned in a blah blah blah!" Or, "I'm not trying to raise money for a basketball blah blah..." Or, "I'm homeless I don't drink or do blah blah I have a family blah blah blah." The main idea is that they are pathetic, and you are on a train full of strangers.
If you find yourself in this "audience," you have a choice to make. You can feign mercy, and turn the man's (or woman's) life around with some permutation of pocket change, or you can play the Scrooge, refuse to give a cent, and make a note to yourself that your soul will burn after you ship out.
If you live in the city, you see the Homeless Show more and more every month. Luckily, most of my commute is spent in my car, with my hands at the wheel and the shifter, alone. So, I don't make it to all of the performances, but I still see the same hosts. One fellow in particular has been at it for a while, is bilingual, and a lock for this years "most ubiquitous panhandler" award. His story never changed, and in my earlier rides I have even given the man change.
Two months ago, he entered the car I was standing in again, from the opposite end door. I was frustrated, tired from walking with a guitar on my back, and I was 36 exits away from my house by the time I would ascend to the street. I was in no mood to give, much less communicate with anyone. He must have smelled it on me, as he came not a foot away from my face, looked at me with eyes as brown as mine, and asked, "Can you spare any change please?"
"Sorry, I have no change," I mumbled, and shook my head.
Immediately his eyebrows furled, and he mumbled back to me, a diatribe. "You're cheap," he said. "You're cheap, and you've been cheap all your life." With this, he moved onto another person, grazing my arm with his.
I don't know exactly what he meant. I didn't know if it was because he remembered me, or if he assumed that I was Jewish, and I didn't know if he had said it out of frustration or out of hatred. What I knew, I realized immediately. This was the first person I have ever met--whom I had ever looked in the eyes, whose flesh and frame I had ever stood before--whom I wanted dead at my hands.
It was the first of that kind of experience for me. I don't recall for how long I genuinely entertained ending that man's life; maybe a car ride, maybe four hours or until my next meal. Surely enough, my anger had subsided just as my generosity had once before. But I finally understood how furious my friend must have felt around the time he had hatched his gruesome murder scheme. It wasn't all funny, it was a little too real.
Neither of us have carried out any sort of atrocity on anybody, vagrant or otherwise. We don't mean to cause harm to any people, but everyone has a fuse with a beginning and an end. And at the ends, anyone is capable of anything, and some sort of hell becomes too near for taste.