Hoodwinked: a Story of Beggars
He was a con-artist, a Frank Abagnale of the street, and I was that compassionate fool, the dumb blonde of horror movies who walks towards the sound of the sharpening metal, neck thrust forward through a low-slung t-shirt. Benny wasn’t Benny or Francis.
I like to, in general, consider myself a guy with a heart. This isn’t to say that I’m not a sarcastic son-of-a-bitch who will probably, at some point, make a snide remark about your mother when you walk into the room, but none of this means that, when you need my help, I won’t be right there by your side like some abused dog. When I’m called to valiant, super-Samaritan action, the hot fire of guilt flares up in my stomach not unlike a bad case of heartburn, singing all but the most pitiful of my vocal chords, which strum a quiet, whimpering: “Of course I can help.” Loyalty, fidelity, compassion – all of those human characteristics through which man has wrought the most terror on his fellows – come gushing in, and I’m helpless to stop them.
It’s this personality trait, then, that is probably the most offended by beggars. In some dank and dark recess of my being, I retain those small drops of humanity that were nurtured into me by my mother at my most vulnerable years, a time before the black carapace of misanthropy had yet to fully form. She taught me about caring for those who were in need, about giving to those who were less fortunate. And as much as my cruelly logical mind try to resist, I had, for a long while, a hard time turning away from the shunting advances, from making eye-contact, from pulling out my wallet. I couldn’t help but pity them and pity myself in some kind of masochistic display of living invicariously through them, and I, the ex-suburbanite bred to believe all the world was Holy and Good, believed their stories.
Why would Benny lie that Benny’s mother had just died from a heart attack, especially after Benny had gotten into a car accident and now needs ten dollars for the train that’s more expensive after four o’clock on Wednesdays in June? And, why wouldn’t April be campaigning for deaf people by selling three, folded construction paper leaflets for four dollars each that say “Help me, I’m deaf.” After all, April’s attention-grabbing clicks and grunts were clearly the authentic, international cry for “Help me, I’m disabled.” And, certainly, Tyrel had to be in dire straits after he ran into that nasty band of shoe-stealing hooligans and couldn’t be made to walk home barefooted after he had just gotten surgery on his right heel!
Woe were they, the poor, pitiful masses of the world. And I was to be their shining light, laden with all the unfortunate caring of a saint, to get them home, get them fed, and get them supported. So I parted with my cash and, in some small portion, my ethics and self-respect, in hopes that they – and I – would have an easier day.
And then a strange thing happened. I saw Benny again, pacing back and forth frantically between passersby in front of the supermarket like a human ping-pong ball, not dissimilar to the last time we had met. Strange, I thought. He must have come back to thank me, I thought, for getting him to the hospital on time. How gracious, I thought.
Sure enough, spotting me standing in the middle of the parking lot, Benny turned his attention toward me and, with a gratitude spurred on by a panicked, wild-eyed fervor for thanksgiving, he approached.
