About four in the morning, Cardigan and I were walking back to my car in an empty Midtown parking lot. I noticed a figure moving toward us from the far side of the lot -- a beggar.
I quickly let Cardigan into the passenger side, and rounded over to the driver side, but the old man had made the distance by the time I had my door open.
"Say, man," he said, "Say, can you spare a brotha' some change."
"Nah, man," I replied without even looking at the man.
"C'mon, man, help a poor man out. Can I just get a buck, man?"
"I ain't got shit for you, chief," I looked up at him. Old, black, balding, shaggy grey beard, tattered clothes -- exactly what you'd probably imagine a beggar to look like.
The beggar backed off, "Why you gotta say somethin' like that, man? Why you gotta curse at me, man, I'm human too."
"Well, 'cause I ain't got shit for you."
"Why you gotta curse at me! Treat me like I'm human, man, please!"
"Quit badgerin' me, chief," I stood behind my open car door, "This is how I talk. I talk like this to every human being out there. Truth of the fuckin' matter is, I still ain't got shit for you. Now, back the fuck on off my car, dog, I swear I'll fuckin hurt ya."
He held his palms up and backed agreeably aside. I got in the car and drove off.
-
On the drive home, after having dropped Cardigan off, I replayed the encounter over and over in my head.
It could've happened differently, I suppose. The words that spew from my mouth regularly are pretty offensive. I didn't want the beggar to bother me, but he's a beggar; that's what beggars do: they beg.
"Sorry, man, I can't help you." I could've said that, instead. Why swear at a stranger just because he's homeless? Why shun a man for being poor?
I'd convinced myself that I was in the wrong.
When I got home, there was a pot of barbequed chicken, a plate of spring rolls, egg rolls, some Vietnamese seafood salad plate. It was my nephew's birthday, and my brother had thrown a get-together earlier in the day. My parents brought home leftovers.
My brothers throw get-togethers all the time -- at least once or twice a month. Birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, visiting guests -- you name it, they dole out the food.
Everytime it happens, my parents bring the leftovers home. Nobody enjoys eating that shit days after the fact, but we choke it down because it's there.
-
Six in the morning, I found the old man asleep in the corner of the parking lot. He woke up from the sound of my approaching car.
I gave him a paper plate with a drumstick, a wing, and a handful of spring rolls. He doesn't have a microwave so the food will taste like shit, but for tonight, at least he'll have a meal.
And tomorrow, he'll probably have nothing. And it'll have never mattered.
But tonight I'll sleep with a clean conscience.
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