Be, All That You Can Be
If rich folk's dog poop litters the sidewalks of the UES like landmines on the Ho Chi Minh trail, I wonder if the guy who sits outside of Starbucks on Lex & 78th ever stepped on any? Landmines, that is; he sits in a wheelchair now so I don't think he has to worry about stepping in doggie-doo anymore. But I think maybe he stepped in some deep doo doo a few years ago, like back in the seventies, like over in Vietnam.
I dunno. I have gotten burned with street people so many times that typically I just bristle my curmudgeonly eyebrows at them when they ask for money. Or, when they ask me if they can just ask me "a quick question"- (yeah, like I am gonna fall for that one). If not to ask me for money, just exactly what are they going to inquire? "Excuse me, can I ask you a quick question? I was just wondering if you think Carnegie Hall is a better venue than Lincoln Center for concerts. And, how does one get to Carnegie Hall, anyway?"
But I dunno, still. This guy sits outside the Starbucks selling felt pens. He wears a boonie hat and fatigues (the good ones- ODs- not the modern camos sported by the skinny kids in hipper neighborhoods). And he rolls up his pants legs so you can get a good look at some terribly nasty scars. Like the kind you might get if you stepped on the doo-doo buried on The Trail about 35 years ago. He nods at passersby who catch his eye (and some of them are attractive women of a certain age) and every so often, someone stops to buy a pen.
I just wanted to give him a dollar. I said "heya" and dropped my buck into the cup
and started to turn away. In this really deep baritone voice of his, he said "You gotta pick out a pen". Huh? Since when do I gotta to do anything? Except maybe, pay taxes. Or pay dues. I wondered if he had paid his dues, or if I was being suckered again. But I picked out a red one, saying "I use these all the time" and from the subtle softening in his expression, I knew that the transaction was properly complete. It was a really cheesy pen, the kind that probably cost about 1 cent wholesale. But it seemed worth way more than a dollar.
I dunno. I have gotten burned with street people so many times that typically I just bristle my curmudgeonly eyebrows at them when they ask for money. Or, when they ask me if they can just ask me "a quick question"- (yeah, like I am gonna fall for that one). If not to ask me for money, just exactly what are they going to inquire? "Excuse me, can I ask you a quick question? I was just wondering if you think Carnegie Hall is a better venue than Lincoln Center for concerts. And, how does one get to Carnegie Hall, anyway?"
But I dunno, still. This guy sits outside the Starbucks selling felt pens. He wears a boonie hat and fatigues (the good ones- ODs- not the modern camos sported by the skinny kids in hipper neighborhoods). And he rolls up his pants legs so you can get a good look at some terribly nasty scars. Like the kind you might get if you stepped on the doo-doo buried on The Trail about 35 years ago. He nods at passersby who catch his eye (and some of them are attractive women of a certain age) and every so often, someone stops to buy a pen.
I just wanted to give him a dollar. I said "heya" and dropped my buck into the cup
and started to turn away. In this really deep baritone voice of his, he said "You gotta pick out a pen". Huh? Since when do I gotta to do anything? Except maybe, pay taxes. Or pay dues. I wondered if he had paid his dues, or if I was being suckered again. But I picked out a red one, saying "I use these all the time" and from the subtle softening in his expression, I knew that the transaction was properly complete. It was a really cheesy pen, the kind that probably cost about 1 cent wholesale. But it seemed worth way more than a dollar.
posted by Curmudgeon at 1:59 PM
1 Comments:
Great post. Glad you didn't stop and make a long convo when all you had to do was pick up a pen and go.
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