On the Other Side

Car after car. Window after window. It’s raining. My sign is soggy. I borrowed the marker from Lenny. His kind of marker doesn’t run in the rain. Tricks of the trade. “Please HELP,” my sign says. “no amount too small.” I shaved today. I combed my hair today. I’m standing straight today. People give more when they think you need it less. They’re afraid of people who need too much. They think people who need are wild. Think they’re exiles. Me, I wasn’t expelled. I ran. Steps ahead of the wave that rose above me.

When the light changes to red, I scan the line for drivers’ eyes. Most drivers stare straight ahead, pretend to be preoccupied. Some guys, they’ll pace around, approach passenger-side windows, even knock them with a knuckle. Make rolling-down-the-window motions. I don’t do that. I used to tell myself I was too polite for that. Too dignified for confrontation. I know the truth now and it’s all I can do to tamp it down, squeeze it into a pellet that settles next to my hunger, my thirst, and my fears about where I’ll sleep tonight. The truth is I’m ashamed. Ashamed to ask. To be hungry. To need.

A driver leans over to roll down the passenger-side window. He flips a bill back and forth to attract my attention. I walk over. “Here you go,” he says. A man about my age. But on the other side. I take the money. “Thanks a lot,” I say. I don’t like belaboring it, doing some kind of master-slave routine. I asked. He answered.

I’ve been offered coins, bills, food, and work. And insults. And sneers. And middle fingers. And garbage in a bag. And coffee splashed from a paper cup. And money held out like bait and taken away. And drivers leaning on the horn to scold me or frighten me. When I wake up in the morning and pull on my coat, I’m already beat. I grab my sign and hike to my spot and try not to look like I need too much. Tricks of the trade.