Street oddities

Having spent so much of my life on the East Coast and in places like New York, Philly, and DC, I became skeptical about and virtually immune to panhandlers. There are the contrived hard-luck stories, the dreadlocked 20-year-olds who seem to ask for money just because they feel like it, there are the schizophrenics, the addicted, and the buskers. They all operate differently, but ultimately, they're all after the same thing: Money that might be there for the asking.

In a moment of uncharacteristic snarkiness on a very BP day, I snapped at a seemingly healthy 30-ish man, "I worked really hard for my money this week and I earned it. What did you do to earn it?" He looked at me and said (with his own snarky tone), "Never mind, sweetheart."

When I moved further west to a much smaller city, I expected the panhandling situation to be different. In some ways it is, and in some ways it isn't. There are the usual stereotypes and a few I hadn't met until I got here. There's the bleach lady who stands on a corner near my house every day, no matter what the weather. Her clothes are streaked with bleach stains and she wears bright yellow household gloves all the time. When people give her money, she takes it in a container, never actually touching it--as if the germs will permeate the latex gloves. Her cardboard sign reads simply, "Wishing for chicken."

One afternoon on my way back to the office after a haircut, a young woman hanging out on the corner spun around and jumped in front of me. She got up in my face and snarled through gritted teeth, "I'm gonna kick your fat fuckin' ass." I just looked at her and kept going, although I was scared she was going to make good on the threat. The crank bug gouges on her face were fresh, she was pale and thin, and her eyes were dark rimmed. A male friend of hers standing nearby apologized and said, "She's not herself. She needs to eat. Could you spare some change?" I assured him I had none to spare for her.

For the most part, panhandlers here are not aggressive and they'll give a "Thanks anyway, God bless" as they walk away. When one of the homeless people passes out along the bike path, someone passing by will always be sure to call an ambulance. This city is like that. Still, I maintain my resolve and I don't feed the problem, instead donating to local agencies that help those facing life challenges.

Usually, I don't feel bad about it. Usually.

Today was not a usually day. It was about 4:00 and everyone had gone home from work, getting an early start on the long weekend. I was parked on the street, loading some things into my car when a slight man in his twenties approached me. He looked tidy enough, clean-cut, but sad. He looked really sad and tired. His voice shook when he talked to me. "Excuse me, ma'am, uh, um, would you happen to have any money you could spare? I, uh, recently suffered a bad burn, and I can't work. I need $12 to keep my motel room for the night."

As he spoke to me, he removed a tattered green T-shirt that had been folded over his arm. The sight that was revealed was horrific. A large chunk of the outer side of his forearm was missing between the wrist and the elbow. The damaged area was easily at least three inches wide and six inches long. Small black scabs peppered the area around the wound. The wound itself was not only huge, but gaping, as if skin and muscle has been gouged or scooped out nearly to the bone. There was no skin and no identifiable muscle, only a yellow waxiness surrounded by an angry red rim. I have never seen anything like it.

My heart sank. I apologized. I called him "sweetie." I explained that I had absolutely no cash with me, and the last of my change had gone into the parking meter. My excuses probably sounded hollow, but they had never been so sincere. I wanted to help, I really did, but I didn't have the means right then. I watched him continue up the street, walking slowly with his head down.

On the way home, I couldn't get the sight of that injury out of my head. I was angry that the city hospital had let him go in that condition. In this state, hospitals are not required to provide indigent care. The city hospital does, but once a patient's life is not in danger, he or she is immediately released. I learned this when the friend of a coworker fell off of a ladder and broke both legs. He was unemployed and had no insurance. In the ER, he was told that he needed surgery on both legs or he would lose his mobility forever, but, since the injury wasn't life-threatening, the city hospital had fulfilled its obligation and he was released an hour later. It took four days of phone calls and begging before he found a hospital to perform the surgery for a minimal fee.

I thought about the young man in the red T-shirt and I was filled with frustration. I had passed my bank earlier in the day and I thought about stopping at the ATM, but decided I felt too darn lazy to park the car and wait in line. How I wished I hadn't been so quick to indulge my lack of patience.

I hope he's OK, but I sense that without proper care and a lot of physical therapy, this man's swollen arm will never function properly again. Had there been cash in my purse, I would have given him the money for the next few nights of motel rent. Hell, I would have--should have--given him the first aid kit from my office. It is well-stocked and has generous amounts of dressings, antibacterial ointments, burn cream, sterile saline solution, and more. I thought about the Zim's Wound Care sitting unused back at home. This guy definitely could have used the outrageously expensive tube of stinky, sticky, surgical-grade collagen goo that had healed an acid burn on my thigh as if it had never happened.

With any luck, he eventually found someone like me, but who actually had cash on hand. Here's hoping for luck and goodwill.