Notes from an Urban Cabin #2 — Man on the street
I don't remember this, but it feels like I do because Mom told me about it. I was maybe four years old, standing on the sidewalk in front of our house, calling insistently but not in an "I'm hurt" way. She came to the screen door. I had my arm around the neck of a spotted creature whose shoulder height was about the same as mine. "Look!" I said. "A tiger!"
I had my spotted and striped cats mixed up. But it wasn't a leopard or a jaguar or a cheetah or an ocelot. It was a Dalmatian. What Mom marveled at was my kid-magical-realism belief that a tiger might wander through our neighborhood, and my trust and fearlessness that it would, of course, let me hug it.
::
The newspaper office is only three and a half blocks away, so when I moved here, I canceled my subscription. But I came to miss having it on days off, especially the Sunday paper. And it's cheap with the employee discount. So I started it up again two weeks ago.
Some mornings I walk downstairs early to get it. Some mornings I don't pick it up until I'm leaving for work. (That was my habit at my previous home, too, and a former coworker used to tease me for "carrying coals to Newcastle.") If I saw a neighbor on my walk from door to car, or a pedestrian on my walk from car to office, I'd ask, "Would you care for today's paper?" If they looked at me like "What's the catch?" I'd say, "I work there. I can get another one."
So one day last week I was walking to work, and there was a guy on the street. I almost offered it to him, but he was busy talking on his cell phone. Then, after I'd passed him, he was busy complaining loudly about not being able to answer or not being understood by whatever automated personbot he'd been talking with.
Here came another guy, a big guy who seemed to know the first guy. He grinned and hailed him from afar, though since the first guy was behind me, it looked like he was hailing me. When I was near, I asked, "Would you care for today's paper?"
He started to reach reflexively, then gave me that look.
"I work there. I can get another one."
He took it, said thank you. Then, after we'd passed, "Hey, can I ask you something?"
I turned and looked up at him.
"Can you give me a few dollars?"
::
My neighbors in this 'hood include the folks in two low-income apartment towers and a residential hotel. Some of the residents are handicapped, some physically, some mentally. The main hub for our bus system is a few blocks away, and mass transit here is more of a "have to" than "choose to" option. A Presbyterian church a block away feeds the homeless and hungry weekly. All this to say, it's common to be asked for money.
Sometimes people are very specific. They ask for a quarter or fifty cents for the bus. If I have it in my pocket, if I can hand it over without having to come to a full stop, I'll give it. Often, though, I say, "I'm sorry, I can't help you today." Sometimes, when it's true, I'll say, "Sorry, I don't have any cash on me."
Here and there downtown are orange metal boxes into which people can donate spare change or cash that will then be used to help the homeless population, though I'm not clear on how. I suppose it's possible to make a living panhandling, though no one wants to encourage it.
If someone asks the time, though, I'll tell them what time it is. I know some folks use that as a test, to see whether you'll give them the time of day. I hadn't thought of this in years, but back in grad school at the University of Pittsburgh, when I was training for a job as an academic adviser, a guy who taught a personal safety class talked to us, and demonstrated how to be courteous but not break your stride. He kept walking, glanced at his wristtwatch, and called out the time on the fly. That's not so smooth to pull off, though, when your timepiece is your iPhone.
::
I told the guy no. Actually, I lied and told him I didn't have any cash on me, by which I meant, "I have a five and a ten in my back pocket, but I have plans for them, and a five is too much to give to a panhandler, except for that pregnant woman a few months ago whose sob story wore me down."
He looked at my lunch sack, asked me where I stayed.
"What?"
"Where you live at?"
"Why do you need to know that?"
"I'm just aksin,'" he said. He might also have said he was just being friendly.
"I live in the neighborhood," I said, turning away. "And I'm late for work."
"All right, baby. I'll catch you later." ::
Once a guy on the street asked me for money (I told him no) and then suggested maybe he could take me out for breakfast sometime. Once I gave a guy the time of day and then he asked if he could walk along with me and we could talk (I told him I wanted to be alone).
Why are some men so — well, there's only one word for it: cocksure?
I told a friend about Mr. Where You Live At, and complained about the familiarity of his calling me baby. She suggested that I might want to carry pepper spray or a stun gun, one that also has a powerful flashlight beam. The light in the eyes could be the first line of defense, and usually the crackling industrial-strength-bug-zapper sound of turning on the stun gun is enough to tell someone to back off.
But I don't want to carry a weapon. I don't want to walk in fear. (I also often don't have the free hand that it would require; and I wouldn't want someone to take it off me and use it against me, which is, I realize, a fear.) The true first line of defense, I know, is not saying hello, not even looking strangers in the eye when they pass me. Pretending they're not there. Dialing back the trust that let me put my arm around a tiger.
::
Last Saturday I needed some screws to complete a carpentry project in the kitchen. I looked up the neighborhood hardware store's hours: 7:30 a.m. to 6 p.m. It was after 7:30. So I went out earlier than I normally would on Saturdays. Walking up the street, I saw more pedestrian activity than I'd expect on a Saturday morning.
Some guys were on the steps of that Presbyterian church, eating from paper plates. I glanced half a block ahead to the ground level of a parking garage, where apparently the homeless and hungry were being fed.
One of the men had the kind of concave mouth that means some teeth are missing. He looked up as I passed, and I said, "Good morning." He lifted a finger and I braced for him to ask me for money.
He gestured toward the garage. "They got food in there," he invited. "Go get you some."
It's been a while since Notes from an Urban Cabin #1. It won't be such a long time before #3. Thank you for reading. If you think others would enjoy this, please forward and invite them to subscribe. Blessings on your walks and interactions in your own neighborhood.
Love,
Laura