TKOG Who begs a beggar

NTKOG #180: The kind of girl who, shackling off all notions of propriety or risk of getting showered with curses or spit (seriously, that happens a lot to me), approaches a street beggar to ask what he can do for her.

I am: the normal amount of wary around disenfranchised or visibly imbalanced homeless people and, dude, regret to inform but…

I am not: going to apologize for it.

The Scene: Back in my halcyon smoking days, on a mental health jaunt out of the office. There is a wagon wheel of benches near my office where, in nice weather, our local band of leather-faced beggars and winos gathers to heckle passers-by for fun and profit.

Dug through my bag for the life-giving death stick and requisite lighter and, to my chagrin, lighter was nowhere to be found. The next bench over, a man — skin mummified by wrinkles and tanned so rough I couldn’t guess his race at gunpoint — stared at me quietly, puffing on a cigarillo.

Normal TKOG would have high-tailed it to the 7-eleven, picked up a lighter to add to my staggering collection, and thought nothing of it. Instead, I found a dollar in my bag, timidly approached the man and asked: “Do you have a lighter I can use?”

He looked surprised that I’d spoken, so I held out the dollar. “I’ll pay you if I can borrow your lighter for just a moment!” He made a first-thing-out-of-bed groaning noise deep in his throat and flapped away the money with one hand while jamming the other in his pocket. A few seconds later, the hand (nails cracked clear down the beds, wavy and too thick) emerged, bearing a black Bic. When I took the lighter, it was greasy to the touch.

Lit my cigarette, handed it back with a thanks, then turned to smoke. Only to find that I’d made the rookie error of not pulling hard enough, so the cigarette was only cosmetically singed.

Feeling an absolutely priceless jackass, turned back to the man and asked if I could borrow it again. Re-lit, solid pull, then took out the money again, a bit more forcefully.

“That was so nice of you. Please accept something for it!”

His throat ground again for a few seconds before he waved the money away again and told me, “I’m happy to help you.”

The Verdict: Man, wouldn’t that be a kickass story if the ending were all, “And then I realized that homeless people are exactly like us, so he and I became besties and I placed him in a job and I never again felt a jolt of visceral revulsion when interacting with someone who, due to life circumstances completely out of their control, cannot nurture their hygiene or mental health as rigorously as I am privileged to! Also: puppies for everybody!”?

But back in reality, I finished my cigarette, went back to work, and washed my hands twice before I stopped feeling phantom residual lighter grease. Because the world is horrible and unfair, and we cannot undo the guilt of privilege by hating ourselves for what we have. Probably the best we can do is remember that it is a privilege and work our asses off every day to be worthy of it.

Tagged as: a few days later i found the guy and brought him a breakfast sandwich from the diner so don't you worry 'bout my eternal salvation, boston, charity, class difference, homeless, i always recall my smoking days as these effervescent sepia-toned gatsby nights. NOBODY DISSUADE ME., i know most people feel visceral homeless-shock and i guess the difference is that most people don't talk about it but dudes i kind of think we have to?, things i should probably not tell the internet, white guilt, you wouldn't believe how much purell i go through at work