Bone In The Fan

An open letter to the guy that panhandled me today while I was sitting with a cup of coffee in front of Starbucks:

Dude,

I don’t mind you asking me for cash. Well, that’s not entirely true, because actually I was enjoying just sitting quietly and didn’t really want to be bugged. I’m just being honest here, nothing personal, or not really personal. You could have been pretty much anyone and I wouldn’t have wanted to be disturbed, though I would have preferred to have been approached by, say, someone carrying a cheese sampler, or maybe a flatulent midget than a guy asking for money. But the asking didn’t really bother me.

Now the answering, though, that was a bummer. After doing the whole acting gig where I pretended that I didn’t see you coming. Then the part where I pretended I didn’t hear you at first because I was so engrossed in the paper (though you were pretty quiet at first - maybe you didn’t want to startle me? Was my acting that good?) After all that, having to look up and act all surprised and answer you, well let’s be honest: that was sort of uncomfortabe for both of us, wasn’t it? And since we’re being honest, let me make a little confession here:  when I said I didn’t have any money, that wasn’t strictly true.  What I meant was that I wasn’t going to give you any.  It’s not that I’m stingy (though I do have a streak of “hey, that’s mine, fucker”) and it’s not that I wouldn’t help out someone in need.

It’s just this: I don’t want to tell you your business or anything, but when you come up to someone at nine in the morning and tell them that you don’t have any money and could really use a couple of bucks for some breakfast, I’d suggest you consider doing it without an ice cold, freshly-opened bottle of Budweiser in your hand.

Just a thought.

Regards,

Brad

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