Beggars and Buskers, Musicians and Thieves, Part II

The New York Face

I had been here for a few days and was still feeling my way around. It was a sunny day, and I stepped out to do the laundry. I would later realize that this was a particularly dangerous time, as a laundry bag automatically translates into a pocketful of cash. As I was crossing Bainbridge, a black guy in a doo-rag started walking towards me. Catching my eye, he grinned widely.

"My man, my man, my man. How you doin'?" he asked, extending his right hand. I shook it and smiled back at him. I'm not a fool--I knew that the other shoe had yet to drop--but I was new to the neighborhood, and saw no need to make enemies. I smiled at him. "How YOU doing?"

His smile got a little wider. "My man, welcome. I'm sorry I wasn't here to welcome you earlier, but you know how it is." Wow, I thought, this guy is really putting it out there.

"Yeah, I know how it is. What's up?"

"Well, man, you see, my Moms needs an operation. She's waiting for some money to come in, and I need to help her out." I zoned him out as he wandered through his spiel, because I already knew what the last line was going to be: "You got any money I can borrow?"

Rich told me to expect this, but I thought he was kidding. He also told me that, if I gave money to one guy, I would be fair game for everyone. I had to nip it in the bud, and I had to do it with some style and class. No need to make enemies in the neighborhood.

"You know, I'd really like to give you some cash, but I don't gotta job right now, and I ain't gotta lotta money." I smiled at him. "Hey, man, you get me a job, and I'll help you out!"

He smiled back. "Hey, you honest. I like that." He thought for a moment, as if considering whether to pursue it further. He decided against it and shook my hand again, then walked away.

I have a hard time saying no to beggars. I've been really poor, and I know what it feels like when you can't afford food. I've had to take care of a kid, and I've had an untreated illness, and most of the cliches hit me pretty close to home. But there's simply too much--too much poverty, too much hunger, too much desperation. We're living pretty close to the wire, and can't even begin to fill the empty pit of need that surrounds us every day.

I like to help people. If I see tourists who look lost, I tend to ask where they're going, and then help them get there. I help ladies with strollers get up stairs and old men with walkers cross streets. I give up my seat on the subway whenever I see someone who looks more needy or tired than I am. Sometimes, it feels like I'm a walking nipple, out to nurture and help everyone.

Within the first few days of our life in the Bronx, it became apparent that Rich was right and I would have to build a shell around my natural tenderness. The sick mother guy was followed by a few more neighbors. I think it got out that I was a cheap bastard, so it's been about a month since somebody hit me up. The last one was a lady who caught me counting my quarters at the laundromat. Few things make you feel more like Ebenezer Scrooge than holding a pocketful of cold quarters while a lady tells you about her sick daughter. Still, I feel like passing out money on my street definitely counts as shitting where you eat.

In those first few weeks, I said "No" so many times that some of my neighbors must have wondered if it was the only word I knew. Sometimes I was polite about it and sometimes I was dismissive, but there were days where it seemed like everybody on the street had some need or another and had decided to ask me to help them through. I quickly saw why Rich warned me: as the token white guy on the street, I could very easily have become the official dispenser of wealth and aid.

I'm not a hardass, but I quickly realized that the endless need of these people did not automatically translate into my responsibility.

Saying no has become second nature, to the extent that the sound of an interrogative sentence almost automatically elicits a negative response. "Do you got money?" "No!" "Can you give me a quarter?" "NO!" "Do you want cake?" "NO...wait, could you repeat the question?"

This has come in handy on the subways where I have quickly adopted my New York face. If you want my dough, you're going to really need to work for it. My wife and I have set up a simple rule: if you make our lives more enjoyable or more interesting, we'll open our wallets. But if you're going to go the veiled threat route, keep moving. And if you're only claim to my money is the fact that you have a need, well my kid is going to need braces. I've gotta get some dental work done. My mother's dead, and my cat's kinda bitchy...

Beggars and Buskers, Musicians and Thieves, Part I

The Fighting Irishman

One night, I had to take the four train into lower Manhattan to go to a party. At my stop, Kingsbridge, the four is elevated, and as I walked up the clattering metal steps, I noticed the guy in front of me. He was blond-haired and ruddy, about 5'6", with a backwards-facing Yankees baseball cap, baggy pants, and a baseball shirt. As he swaggered up the steps, he carried a cane in his left hand and swung it in slow, lazy circles.

When we get to the platform, he staked out a spot on the southern end, and I made a beeline in the opposite direction. He seemed oddly familiar, and his aggressive stance and jaunty motions made me nervous. He was pacing back and forth, the cane swinging in the air like it was eager to hit something. I wasn't interested in getting in a fight, and this guy was spoiling for one.

He started to wander up and down the platform, full of nervous energy. When the train came, he went into the car ahead of mine. I relaxed and started reading my book. At the next stop, he walked into my car. As the doors closed, I remembered where I had seen him. He was a beggar, and the four train was his regular prowling ground.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,PLEASE EXCUSE ME FOR BOTHERING YOU" he began, speaking in a tone that I had long since come to associate with subway beggars. It was a disappointed monotone, the sort of voice that an Assistant Principal uses. "I AM SORRY TO BOTHER YOU TODAY, BUT I NEED TO ASK FOR YOUR SUPPORT. AS YOU CAN SEE, I AM GETTING OVER AN INJURY..." The cane, which he had been swinging previously, now supported him as he lurched from one end of the train to the other, favoring his right foot. "I ALSO WAS RECENTLY RELEASED FROM PRISON. I AM NOT HURTING ANYBODY OR COMMITTING ANY CRIMES, BUT I NEED SOME MONEY TO GET BACK ON MY FEET..."

We had all seen him on the platform. At this time of night, there were only about twenty people in the car, and about half of them got on Kingsbridge. We'd all watched him prowling around at Kingsbridge. We all knew that he could walk perfectly well. We all knew that this wasn't begging as much as it was a threat.

At this point, the train pulled into a station and he positioned himself in the middle of the doorway, shoulders broad, facing into the train and daring passengers to squeeze past him. After the train started moving again, he continued his spiel. I zoned him out, and tried to lose myself in my book, although I kept one eye alert as he wandered back and forth in the car, yelling at his fellow passengers, demanding money. Like everybody else, I kept my eyes off his face. I looked at my book, or the windows of the car, the ads, the ceiling, anywhere but this guy. I didn't want to look him in the eye. It's not that I was afraid of feeling pity, or didn't want to see the face of need. To put it simply, this guy gave me the creeps, and I was afraid that, if I looked him in the eye, I'd end up getting in a fight.

I have a name for this one: the Fighting Irishman. He's like an angry, psychotic little James Cagney, and his begging patter has more than a little threat in it. He's a healthy kid, well-muscled and well-fed, with a recent haircut and clean clothes. He seems to enjoy working the cars. Our silence, our refusal to look him in the eye, fuels him. He's not a beggar; he's a minister. He's John Edwards, prowling around his moving pulpit, exhorting his unwilling, weak congregation. He knows he's got us, at least until the train pulls into the station. He glares around the car, letting us know that a buck or two will keep him from going back to the streets, where might just meet him down a darkened alley. Sooner or later, we're going to cough up the dough...

On a long four ride, I can usually count on seeing the Fighting Irishman a couple of times. He moves up and down from car to car, switching at stations or going through the doors at the end while the train hurtles down the track. One day, when I was in the second to last car, he hit us up once, disappeared for two stops, and came back again. Each time, he went through the same spiel, acting as if he hadn't bugged us just a few minutes earlier. As if we were total strangers, a fresh audience for his routine.

I don't give the Fighting Irishman any money. I'll sometimes give out a little change, but I'm pretty particular, and the aggressive, in-your-face beggars don't get any of my cash. The Irishman's patter is familiar, because I hear it a few times a week. I've heard it from dozens of beggars, with surprisingly few variations. It's as if they're all working from the same script, and I sometimes feel like its an audition. Sometimes there will be a sick mother at home, and sometimes there will be a few kids thrown into the mix, but most of the time it's a simple, veiled threat: I'm an ex con with an injury. I can't work, and I'm trying to stay off the streets. Give me your money now or give me your money later, one way or another, you're going to give me your money...