Every day I walk down the street of the richest area of NW, DC, to get to work. I pass Pink, the Mayflower Hotel where I once saw Danny DeVito & Rhea Pearlman, and Burberry.
And every day there are strategically placed homeless men sitting with their backs against the store fronts holding ragged Starbucks cups, jingling loose change toward each passerby.
It's a strange dichotomy, but one you expect to see in any city. If I were poor, this is probably where I'd go to ask for money, too. Although, after days of rich white people sneering at me as they pass, or pretending they don't see me as they walk quickly by in their Armani shoes and tailored jackets and khaki slacks, I would probably choose another corner.
You would think people who were dripping with money should have an understanding of world issues like poverty. Wait, no you wouldn't think that, never mind. But why not? Why the fuck not?
Would it kill them to drop a dollar or hell, even a hundred dollar bill into their cup? Certainly not. But it would mean the world to a homeless person.
But they'll buy drugs!
They'll buy alcohol!
I don't want them using my money for dirty things!
What the fuck ever. You're probably already using your money for these things, anyway. Or your sons & daughter are, perhaps. If I were homeless, I'd probably want to put myself in another state of mind on a regular basis. Bodily sustenance? Hell no, whatever makes me go quicker would be fine with me.
This is a particularly harsh post. Let me lighten this up by saying I sometimes will give the homeless men food I have in my bag when I walk by.
Today, all I had was a fruit leather. You know those little "fruit snacks" you get from trader joe's that's chock full of fiber and leaves an awful aftertaste. I decided not to give it to him.
I imagined his reaction if I had chosen to bestow him with this leather.
"...thank you...for burdening me with this BULLSHIT"
Wherever you are right now, sir, I promise I'll try to have something better for you on Monday.