He walks
with a limp.
Rain or
shine, he hobbles back and forth on the sidewalk next to a busy
intersection. I’ve watched him for two
years, holding his cardboard sign. As
hard as he works to beg, I have wondered why he doesn’t use that energy to find
a job. He might have issues that would
keep him from getting hired. I don’t
know, but I’ve never seen anyone give him money.
Sometimes
the appeal for help is more direct. I’ve
been approached at gas pumps. Seemingly desperate
people plead, “I need to get home to my dying mother.”
Who knows whether they are telling
the truth?
More than
once, I’ve said, “I am not giving you money, but bring your car to this pump …
and I’ll give you some gas to get home.”
Am I being conned?
Maybe I am, but maybe I’m not.
On Tuesday
mornings—if I am in town—I have breakfast with some buddies. Most of them are retired, and we have no
agenda.
When I got
out of my truck last month, I stopped to chat with a friend. As we were walking into the restaurant, a man
flagged us down. He stuck out his hand
and said, “I’m Maurice. I’m from Tampa,
and I’m hungry.”
“Maurice,” I
said, “Come inside. I’ll buy you
breakfast.”
On the way
to the door, he said that he had slept under a nearby bridge for the last three
nights. I quizzed why he hadn’t gone to
the homeless shelter. He said it was
full, and he was turned away.
Our usual
waitress greeted us. “Tammie,” I said,
“please bring this man breakfast.” And
with that, I walked to our usual corner.
Before my
meal arrived, I got up to check on Maurice.
He was over by the window waiting, too. I laid $20 on the booth’s tabletop. “Maurice,” I said, “this will cover your meal
and then some. Leave something for
Tammie, too.” Maurice nodded, and I
returned to my table.
The group’s
conversation had switched from baseball to a convoluted court case which had
just concluded. During the judge’s
recap, I glanced up to see Maurice leaving the restaurant with a to-go
bag. I waved, but he didn’t look my
way.
“Oh, well,” I thought: “he’s in a
hurry.”
And he was.
After
breakfast, I was almost to my truck when I heard a shout: “Tammie needs to see
you.”
Back inside,
Tammie was at the cash register. “Uh,”
she said, “the fella left without paying. “
Maurice had pocketed the $20, and he
left a $16.47 tab.
Helping
panhandlers is a roll of the dice.
That’s why I rarely give money.
Some are con
artists, winos, or drug addicts.
Some are
genuinely desperate.
How do you
know which is which?
You
don’t.
In a split second, you have to
decide: Yes or no?
Sometimes you get a Maurice.
I might have been scammed, but he
didn’t go away hungry or broke.
A month later, my buddies are still
laughing.
Well, that’s worth something.
dnesmith@cninewspapers.com
