Homeless
Happy Hour at Green Tree Villas is a gab fest every Wednesday at four o'clock. Neighbors gather on the patio of the clubhouse to sip wine, nibble hors d'oeuvres, and share the small and large events of the week. I was eager to tell my tale of the pregnant girl beseeching motorists for money at the nearby intersection of Boynton Beach Boulevard and Military Trail. "Abandoned, Alone, Homeless." I gave her five dollars and thought, it isn't enough. When I circled back, she was gone.
Immediately after my lament, Diane, an actress and knower-of-props and costumes, held forth on the wiles of false placard bearers. They form business enterprises for the purpose of fleecing the public and stake out major intersections in Palm Beach County. Some conspirators winter in the South and summer in the North.
With a measure of chagrin, I contemplated my past follies:
The old black man in the wheel chair at the aforementioned intersection appeared to be more of a pawn than a principal partner. I had seen someone wheel him to his post where he sat in the hot Florida sun breathing in auto exhaust and holding his sign, "Homeless, Hungry." He was a sad sight, and I gave. Yes, I got out of my car. There wasn't time to wait him out. He was recently replaced by a young white man in a wheel chair. It might have been the same chair.
The thin, dark, dirty-haired man in ragged clothes at the intersection of Jog Road and Lake Worth Road was easy. "Homeless, Hungry, God Bless." I felt sorry for his wretched state and gave. While I was waiting for the light to change, his business partner across the intersection called to him, "I'm going to Dan's later. You wanna come?"
"Nah, I'm going home."
The scruffy-bearded, middle-aged man with the bike, dog-in-the-basket, and "Homeless, Hungry" sign has been around for a long time, although they may go North for the summer. Sometimes he parks his Bike & Company outside Publix supermarket. Perhaps he's inside shopping. The dog and sign attract a lot of attention. People don't weigh the possibility that the dog might be a drug addict or an alcoholic. They just want to provide food, shelter, and a visit to the vet.
The man also utilizes Medical Drive and Boynton Beach Boulevard. There's a stop sign at the small intersection with shade trees and a pond—quite pleasant. People are compelled to stop and to give: A bad medical report necessitates immediate atonement for past sins through good deeds. A good report is a reminder that a bad report is inevitable. Good or bad, atonement remains a hot topic and "now" is a good time to start. Yes, I have given him money; it probably wasn't enough.
The wounded vet at the corner of Congress Avenue and Lantana Road is the most perplexing. The crutch validates the beach chair and the sun validates the umbrella; it's the cooler that creates a suspicious sum—as if he's going to the beach after work. A request for discharge papers is not possible. I gave. If he's an imposter, the karma is his.
It was six o'clock and Happy Hour was drawing to a close. My neighbors were gathering their things in readiness to leave. I did the same, said goodbye, and headed for my condo a wiser woman than when I left.
The following morning I was determined to drive through the gauntlet of pleas untouched. I put my purse in the trunk and a credit card for Walgreens Pharmacy in my pocket. Giving would be difficult unless they took credit . . . Nah!
The automatic doors opened wide at Walgreens, and I strode through as if I owned the place. This new-found confidence lasted until I left the store. A young man neatly dressed and waving a large empty plastic container approached me. "I ran out of gas. I have no money and can't get home. Whatever you can spare—anything, anything at all! I'd appreciate it. Please!" Diane said nothing about Walgreens, and gas was a new topic.
I have given my son, Max, gas money many times. I suspect he visits when he's low on cash and low on gas. So . . . I went to my car, opened the trunk, and took $5.00 from my purse. The young man thanked me and ran happily to his car which was parked under a tree alongside the building. I was glad the car was old, very old. He stood next to it and counted his loot as if it were legitimate income. With or without gas, he wasn't going far. The girl in the passenger seat would be better off walking.
Life can be a harsh marketplace, and sometimes, there's nothing to sell.