Spying

A week or two ago one of my Facebook friends, my 20-something ex-stepnephew, wrote this post:

When you see a homeless person begging at say, a road intersection corner, with a scratty cardboard sign, do you give them a dollar, perhaps more; if not, how do you react to those who do hand it out?

The answers he received ranged from this one:

F--- 'em. I work for my money. Most panhandlers, according to MULTIPLE studies, make about eleven dollars an hour. I feel no pity. Also, half of those guys are on wellfare and NOT HOMELESS.

to this one:

I feel guilty if I don't and gullible if I do - can't win

and everything in between. It's a question I've wrestled with and have come to this conclusion, which is what I posted back to my Friend: I don't care how much they make an hour; it's a terrible way to live. I give out of gratitude for what I have.

I didn't bother to expound on some other reasons I give, without feeling gullible:

• Many people who ask for money on the street are homeless through no fault of their own, including military veterans, the mentally ill (we closed their facilities and kicked them out), and others;
• Even if they choose the life they live, they are much more likely to be sick or wounded than others;
• They are easy prey and are often attacked;
• There aren't enough shelters even if they wanted to go to them, and if they have a cart full of "stuff" they can't take it in with them;
• Sure they drink and drug. If you lived on the street you'd probably want something to help ease that pain too.
• No, they can't just "get a job" because they don't have an address or a place to get presentable enough to appear for an interview.

I could go on. Have you ever really seen the people who ask you for money? Some of them are obviously not as old as they look; they're just beat up by life on the street.

Here's what happened in Grants Pass, Oregon, on Monday. I was parked at Walmart * (Have you noticed, they've changed the way they spell their name? It used to be WAL-MART; now it's lower case with a little flower at the end: supposed to give us a friendlier, more hometown feeling instead of a giant blood-sucking corporate behemoth feeling. At least, that's what some guy on the radio said, but I digress.)

To digress a bit more, you need to know that Michelle has privacy windows. I can see out but you have to put your hands to the glass and peer in to see me. Thus I am accorded a view of people who are unaware of being watched, which can be very entertaining and enlightening.

This past Monday I was getting ready to leave Oregon around 11 a.m. when a small brown pickup truck pulled into the space next to me. It was already hot and their windows and mine were open, so when their engine stopped I heard a woman say "I don't lie to you, you know. I will answer any question you have." I didn't hear what her companion replied. As usual when someone parks that close to me, I lowered the window curtain so they couldn't see me even if they tried, which means I didn't see what happened next, but I heard the truck doors slam and figured they had both gone into Walmart.

About three minutes later I heard the truck door again, so I raised the curtain enough to see that the woman had returned with a piece of cardboard that read "Taco Bell Quick Prep Chunky Beans," which she had apparently retrieved from the restaurant dumpster a few yards away. I watched her use a dull pocket knife to cut about a 12 x 18-inch piece. Then she took a big black marker and made a sign that read, "OUT OF GAS," in very neat, precise lettering.

Of course, I immediately thought, How can you be out of gas when you just drove the truck into that parking space?

But then I thought, Okay, maybe they are really low on gas and need to panhandle for more before they really do run out.

About that time a man with long graying beard and hair road up to the truck on a bicycle. He could have been 40 years old or 60. He handed the woman a piece of paper. "Forty cents," he said, as she folded the paper and put it with some others in a little compartment under the dashboard.

The woman finished her sign, got out of the truck and walked to the nearest cart return corral, where she chose a cart and then looked into a nearby trash receptacle. She was wearing a full-length "granny dress" and her hair was pulled neatly back from her face and tied with an elastic. Her face was tanned and worn. I wondered if she intended to fill up the cart with trash in broad daylight, so I decided to follow her.

By the time I got my shoes on she was nowhere in sight, but before I returned home I glanced into the pickup (the windows were still down) and saw the sign on the seat. I also saw the piece of folded paper in the little compartment under the dash, so I boldly reached in, picked it up, and saw that it was a receipt for cash on bottles returned to Walmart. Aha! Apparently Oregon has a bottle return law, I thought. (5 cents each, as it turns out.)

When I was once again ensconced in my window seat the woman returned with her cart, from which she unloaded into the back of the pickup two large white plastic bags stuffed with plastic bottles she had obviously scrounged from the trash cans at Walmart and the other stores in the complex. Then she left again on foot, without her sign.

As I was preparing to leave, the man came back on his bike, looked around for his partner and, not finding her, took off again. I left a five-dollar bill on the front seat of the truck, under the sign, hoping she would get to it before he did, and then wondering if she would tell him she had it.

On the way out of the parking lot I encountered a truly pitiful looking woman trying in vain to keep cool in the shade of a young tree. I don't know what her sign said, I just reached for some quarters and rolled down the passenger side window. When she came to take the money, I saw that she was in pretty bad shape. She could have been 20 or 50. She took the money and croaked something that I assume was a thank you. I rolled up the automatic window on my air conditioned home on wheels and left her there.

Praise the Universe from Whence All Blessings Flow...if you happen to be in the right place, at the right time, with enough dough.

PS: Yesterday I saw a woman on the street with a sign that said, no kidding, "Will Take Verbal Abuse for Spare Change."

PPS: Still working on that sonnet for you.