#11: No Expectations. Part 1.
Illustration © my friend Echo Mars whose band Thus Love just finished their second European tour and is on their way to Brazil. New album in late fall/early winter unless I can distract her by asking for more illustrations…
I had maybe four gift cards left when Bruce walked up to me. Bruce has been around for a while, but I was surprised to see him because I’d been told someone had overdosed in the parking garage a few days before and, from the description, it sounded like Bruce, so I figured he was dead. I had kind of shrugged and maybe sighed a little when I heard, but that was the extent of my mourning.
Those of us “afflicted” with white—or at least economic—privilege have a range of reactions to people on the street asking for money. On a scale of 1-10, a “1” would be a guy like my friend Jerry who’s appeared a couple of times playing banjo on the sidewalk. It makes me smile to see him and I’m more than happy to throw a few dollars in his banjo case.
At the other end of the scale—let’s a “10”—is someone who looks desperate, menacing, and/or having a psychotic break, approaching you on a dark street. That’s when it’s time to remove yourself from the situation as fast as you can, however you can, while telling Siri to call 911.
Most of the time when people approach me for money, my reactions range from being mildly amused to seriously annoyed or even, sadly, repulsed. People like Melvin and Kenny usually amuse me, as long as I have time to hang out and talk—even if the talk is seemingly nonsense and costs me a cup of coffee or $5, $10, or more.
Otherwise, they can be a little annoying:
Melvin will keep talking to me as I’m walking to my car, and, despite my protestations, will eventually say, “C’mon dad”—a final plea for at least a few bucks delivered in a perfect blend of feigned whining and actual fondness that only a 45-year-old black “kid” from Mississippi can pull off when dealing with a 71-year-old white Jewish “kid” from Rhode Island. (Yes, Melvin, I know how old you are and where you’re from and even your birthday within a day or two.) I now insist I won’t give him money unless I have time to hang out, at least for a few minutes—a boundary I’ve managed to maintain for six months or so.
Kenny will also just keep talking to me. No matter what I’m doing or where I’m going. He talks. I say shut-up Kenny. He starts ranting about someone. I ask him what happened to the unconditional love his close personal friend the Dalai Lama taught. He tells me about the book “Be Angry…The Dalai Lama on What Matters Most” and how it explains the use of compassionate anger. I suggest his Holiness was suggesting ways to use anger to change the world not to right some perceived personal wrong by yelling at someone in a restaurant and getting kicked out and told not to come back. He tells me he loves me. I tell him I love him. And I’m usually only late for wherever I was going by five minutes or so.
Most people fall in the “4-7” range which goes from gee-whiz sympathy to a repugnance that makes me want to cross the street. I’m not apologizing. I’m just saying.
All my protestations of non-judgement aside, Bruce has always been one of those people who kinda makes me want to cross to the other side of the street. Tall. Stringy black hair. Slightly stooped over. Always smoking. I mean the guy walks around in a well-worn Yankees jacket. In this town? C’mon…
Bruce doesn’t look threatening or anything. He just looks so…so…like no matter how much money you gave him, he’d still be in that helpless place, so that even talking to him could pull you inexorably into that black hole of helplessness.
But, by now, I was on my game (and in my power) with the $10 Co-op gift card thing, so when he approached me the other day and asked if I could spare a few dollars, I asked if he went to the Co-op and he said yeah so I reached into my pocket and handed him a gift card. When I asked his name, he immediately brightened up as strangers often do when you make personal contact. But. when I asked how he was doing, he went back to his traditional pained expression, which made me think maybe he was the guy who overdosed but survived and was still ravaged by the experience.
When I saw him a few days later, he was back at his usual place. I asked if he’d used the Co-op card and he actually smiled as he nodded. As I started to walk away, he explained he needed $5 so he could go to Rite Aid to get his Suboxone.
“Why don’t you go to the Clinic?”
“Can’t get up that early.”
I gave him a look.
“Really man, I have a script, it just costs a few bucks at Rite Aid.”
(I’ve heard various prices. I’m still getting to the bottom of the Suboxone thing)
He walked alongside me down the sidewalk and I asked him a few more questions. When I saw the alleged small-scale drug dealer Jimmy on the other side of the street, I asked Bruce if he had been able to stay away from him while on Suboxone. He mumbled a yes. So, I gave him the $5 and kept walking. When I reached the parking garage, I turned my head and watched in amazement as he immediately crossed the street and went up to Jimmy.
As Melvin would say, “To be continued.”