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2005-11-18 @ 10:34 p.m. I pass him every day, the weathered old man with his cardboard sign that says “Homeless vet. Anything will help.” He sits at an exit ramp where there’s a traffic light that is seemingly always red. I hate getting stopped by that light. The old man stares at me intently as I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, praying that the light will change soon. I suddenly become very interested in finding something, anything in my glove compartment. Napkins, car insurance papers, registration, vehicle manual—finally! The light changes and whatever it was I was looking for ceases to have the need to be found. The old man is on my mind for the next few moments until I accidentally cut someone off and become the recipient of an American one-finger salute. Luckily, I don’t have to hear what he’s yelling. I’ve always been wary of any panhandler, especially those who come up to me attempting to tell me a story that starts out with, “Man, I’m really embarrassed to be doing this right now.…” The story usually continues on about how he’s from Atlanta and his mother is sick in Detroit, and his car broke down here in Cincinnati, and he’s just trying to get home. The story is now pretty much over, and at this point, he’s usually starting to repeat himself—kind of. He’s from Detroit and his mother is sick in Atlanta and he needs to get his car fixed. He just needs ten or maybe fifteen bucks so he can catch a bus to Indianapolis to pick up the car part because there aren’t any places around here that will ship the part he needs. (I’ve had my share of car trouble, and oddly enough, I’ve never found an auto parts store or a mechanic or even a post office that isn’t willing to have a part shipped. Something else I’ve never found is a commercial bus-line that will take anyone anywhere for fifteen bucks.) But the old man, though his staring makes me nervous, intrigues me. Homeless vet, his jagged-edged cardboard sign reads. Is that true? Oh, I’m quite sure of the homeless part. I highly doubt he packs up his things at the end of a long, hard day of accepting small bills and whistles over to his new BMW. But what about the veteran part? If he’s really a veteran, tell me—what is our country coming to? And what about his being homeless? Does he sleep on a bench at night? Does he check in to a shelter somewhere? Is he homeless by choice? These questions permeate my mind as I drive to work every morning, but hey, he’s not my responsibility, right? |
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