Act I: The Empiricist
Kids never look away. Most sit up, some even wave. They concede to me a look reserved for strays at a pound their parents might adopt someday. I hate it when I make the odd one cry. I know I appear like a rag doll covered in recycled cloth and paper, shifty and vile, hand half-outstretched; let's leave out what has become of my face. Even though the effect is part of the act, scaring a kid is ideally not how I would like my spare change.
Adults are the ones desperately reaching for their center-locks, window-locks, and whatnot. All this time not once looking in my direction, even as their faces and spines stiffen like some exotic poison kicking in. Willing the lights to turn green with the tightened grip on their steering. They then act as if I would obey their head bob, nod or wave and leave them be. The want me away lest my breath (it is bad, I agree) seep into their metal cocoon leading to a horrific death. People, I am a beggar, not a highwayman! I’m not leaving ‘coz there’s no other place to be. By the way, want to ensure drivers always keep their eyes on the road? Hire homeless guys to walk the shoulder every few miles.
I catch them at the traffic lights at the third exit from the Highway. It's been my spot for the better part of the month. It's the exit to the coast, and conveniently situated at an underpass. Shade and camouflage. This is the beginning of the season. Traffic is not expected to pick up for at least another week. The pickings are all mine, as here I'm the only "unhoused person" hoping for a handout. Even better, no cops. For now. Speaking of pickings, the ‘hits’ are better if there is a kid’s window I could smudge.
My shoes have been a shambles for a while. Now no more than a shell made of leather, foam and twine held together somehow. The woolen socks had worn to let at least one toe peek past. Like a veiled woman repelled by a relentless breeze, my toes curl inward every time it senses the elements, now no more than a peel of rubber away. As if cringing from an awful yet inevitable Fate.
There's no art to any of this. Just living, getting to at least one meal a day at a time. Or a sweet escape with a pill, needle, or both. It is but a layer of dust and grime that separate us.
This last expedition was ideal. They decided against killing the mood mining their cup-holders for loose change, and instead, expeditiously got rid of me with a crisp note. I could tap-dance. Thank you, Sir. Must be nice.
Act II: The Cynic
That was a 20. A twenty. For a bum. If my husband could have it his way, we would wire money ahead to every no-good road-roach, if only to save him the discomfort. What happened to small change? Are we rich now? Would that vagrant have kidnapped us otherwise? It’s a half hour to the hotel without traffic. Keeping thoughts to myself ensures a peaceful transit, minus the ‘silent treatment’ I would otherwise get dished.
The kids were bored into their handsets, until the lights matched us with the Troll of the Underpass. Being the only car at a red light also means the deity provides you his undivided attention. As the figure lurched near, a couple of meek requests for foreign aid started off from the back seats housing our emo sub-teenage souls. Now miraculously off their online avatars and all in favor of good old socialism. Maybe just for getting them off their damned headsets and screens, I guess, my husband decided the beggar deserved an annual bonus. Did that guy just do a bow or curtsy or something? I can’t even.
I bite my tongue. Light changed, released brake, and zoom. A bit much though, for the tyres did squeal and probably smoked. The prodigals in the back surely thrown back in their seats, and back to their online troughs. No cops in the area, hopefully.
These people are coddled by the Government; I’m sure he earns enough from this gig over and above what those doles, soup kitchens and shelters provide. Enough for some primo uncut you-know-what on the side. Must be nice.
Act III: The Stoic
Most traffic interdictions or “stops” are either down to bad-luck or bad driving. It is bad luck if you were up to no good otherwise and a cop catches you while, say, speeding. It is bad driving when you decide to try a Formula1-adjacent start while rocking a mere family van. Tyre squealers/smokers are a pet peeve of cops, and I am no exception. The only ones who should be doing this are rich kids in souped-up rides with money to spare for the ticket. Not some 3-row fully laden minibus headed to the beach.
My perch is a few hundred yards from the exit where I get a first-class view of the route. Radar is enforced. It is also a No-Solicitation zone. There are signs posted to these effects. I call in to dispatch and ease onto the ramp. First task would be to light up and pull over racer-boy or girl. Most likely worth a Ticket, but we’ll see. On the way back, I would be making acquaintance with the latest moocher menacing this stop light.
No way they’re getting away with this. What are these people thinking? Must be nice.
