I Guess Not
This morning, I came up from a hole in the ground, paid too much for caffeine in a cup that burned my hand and headed toward my office. On the corner, every day, is a man handing out free local newspapers. Most days, when I walk past, he shouts out the name of the paper, kind of like those cute little London street vendors in the movie Oliver! (“Who will buy my sweet red roses, two blooms for a penny”). But today, as I completely ignored his outstretched hand, which, by the way, was totally in my face, he said “Have a nice day.” Since I don’t know him, I have no concern for his paper, and I’m not really a morning person, I said nothing. I’m not interested in a conversation in the morning, I’m interested in getting to my desk where I can take the lid off my overpriced and overheated coffee. As I passed by, since I made no response to his “Have a nice day” comment, he added “I guess not!” Well that was uncalled for, I thought.
This man has decided to call into judgment my morning demeanor. And to comment on it as if he were Simon Cowell and had ratings to uphold. I could understand this need he had to let me know of his dissatisfaction with my attitude had I, say, been kicking puppies to the curb and swinging kittens around by their tail over my head, but no, I was just walking. I did nothing to him, said nothing to him, indeed, failed to bring him into focus at all, and yet, I seem to have touched a nerve in the poor guy.
Kind of reminds me of the time I answered a man’s plea for “spare change” on the Avenue of the Americas with a sympathetic “I’m sorry,” to which he responded “You ain’t sorry!” Well, yes, actually, I am. I’m sorry you feel urged on by something great inside you to approach strangers in the street for assistance. I’m sorry you don’t understand that although all men are brothers, not all men have an abundance of “spare change.” And I’m sorry you’ve become disillusioned to the ways of the world to the extent you feel people you don’t know have some obligation toward you.
In this country we have community outreach programs to help disenfranchised individuals, as well as many social services that can be accessed through local religious centers and government offices. Although I am someone the current White House resident might call a “bleeding heart liberal,” I don’t actually have any spare change at this time. I have pressing concerns of my own which demand every bit of my change, so as empathetic as I may be toward the unfortunate plight of those who have less funding than I, I’m afraid I can’t act as payroll administrator for them.
The act of depending on the kindness of strangers is not new. In NYC, it’s grown so prevalent that a few years ago, it was deemed inappropriate in a legal kind of way for people to ask for money on the subway. This was great news for me, as I never could stomach being a captive audience for those who were homeless, sick, just out of prison or somehow maimed in a war someone other than I sent them to fight. The fact that it’s now illegal to ask strangers to contribute toward one’s cost of living doesn’t really act as a deterrent. Some still come on the train and make an impassioned speech to those of us just trying to focus on our romantic fiction while being jostled about with 1,427 people we don’t really have any interest in spending time with. Others, however, have become even more resourceful. One older blind man sings for his spare change. He taps out a rhythm with his cane and belts out his medley of hits from the late 70’s, Always and Forever followed by Do Ya Think I’m Sexy, in a tenor voice that sounds to me like a cross between Billie Holiday and Macy Gray. There’s also a Mariachi band and a group of five men who sing doo wop. This is all on the R train. Well, as nice as it is to be entertained, it’s also very distracting when you’re trying to read. But does that matter to these entrepreneurial gentlemen? I guess not.
What I suppose I’m trying to say is, if Matt Damon
were sitting next to me on the train ride either to or from my office, I would indeed think he’s sexy, but I wouldn’t want him to pose that question to me in song. And if he were handing out free local newspapers on the street corner, I would request that he understand his position. He accepted the job of distributing the news for whatever they’re paying him. That would mean that, as beautiful as he would be thrusting his hand into people’s faces, no one is actually required to speak to him or to accept his free litter box liner. Now, do you suppose Mr. Free Press can grasp that concept? I guess not!
This man has decided to call into judgment my morning demeanor. And to comment on it as if he were Simon Cowell and had ratings to uphold. I could understand this need he had to let me know of his dissatisfaction with my attitude had I, say, been kicking puppies to the curb and swinging kittens around by their tail over my head, but no, I was just walking. I did nothing to him, said nothing to him, indeed, failed to bring him into focus at all, and yet, I seem to have touched a nerve in the poor guy.
Kind of reminds me of the time I answered a man’s plea for “spare change” on the Avenue of the Americas with a sympathetic “I’m sorry,” to which he responded “You ain’t sorry!” Well, yes, actually, I am. I’m sorry you feel urged on by something great inside you to approach strangers in the street for assistance. I’m sorry you don’t understand that although all men are brothers, not all men have an abundance of “spare change.” And I’m sorry you’ve become disillusioned to the ways of the world to the extent you feel people you don’t know have some obligation toward you.
In this country we have community outreach programs to help disenfranchised individuals, as well as many social services that can be accessed through local religious centers and government offices. Although I am someone the current White House resident might call a “bleeding heart liberal,” I don’t actually have any spare change at this time. I have pressing concerns of my own which demand every bit of my change, so as empathetic as I may be toward the unfortunate plight of those who have less funding than I, I’m afraid I can’t act as payroll administrator for them.
The act of depending on the kindness of strangers is not new. In NYC, it’s grown so prevalent that a few years ago, it was deemed inappropriate in a legal kind of way for people to ask for money on the subway. This was great news for me, as I never could stomach being a captive audience for those who were homeless, sick, just out of prison or somehow maimed in a war someone other than I sent them to fight. The fact that it’s now illegal to ask strangers to contribute toward one’s cost of living doesn’t really act as a deterrent. Some still come on the train and make an impassioned speech to those of us just trying to focus on our romantic fiction while being jostled about with 1,427 people we don’t really have any interest in spending time with. Others, however, have become even more resourceful. One older blind man sings for his spare change. He taps out a rhythm with his cane and belts out his medley of hits from the late 70’s, Always and Forever followed by Do Ya Think I’m Sexy, in a tenor voice that sounds to me like a cross between Billie Holiday and Macy Gray. There’s also a Mariachi band and a group of five men who sing doo wop. This is all on the R train. Well, as nice as it is to be entertained, it’s also very distracting when you’re trying to read. But does that matter to these entrepreneurial gentlemen? I guess not.
What I suppose I’m trying to say is, if Matt Damon
were sitting next to me on the train ride either to or from my office, I would indeed think he’s sexy, but I wouldn’t want him to pose that question to me in song. And if he were handing out free local newspapers on the street corner, I would request that he understand his position. He accepted the job of distributing the news for whatever they’re paying him. That would mean that, as beautiful as he would be thrusting his hand into people’s faces, no one is actually required to speak to him or to accept his free litter box liner. Now, do you suppose Mr. Free Press can grasp that concept? I guess not!
posted by Sam at 7:13 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home