"Can I have a quarter for gas' My car broke down." I've heard the story a
thousand times before, literally: twice a day for several years. I rarely
give money to panhandlers because in general I despise the web of lies they
weave to swindle people out of money. "Just come right out and ask for
money, don't give me a stupid story," I say to myself, occasionally out
loud. I see the same panhandlers each day because I walk by the same spots.
I've grown inured to panhandlers, rarely smiling at them, offering simple
eye contact or even saying "No, sorry," in response to their pleas for
payments. It's not that I feel panhandling is wrong; many panhandlers are
homeless or otherwise unable to earn money by conventional means and
begging is their only way to eat. Basically, like many other people, I try
not to be rude while at the same time remaining on guard.
Bob stood outside the supermarket I frequent, a noticeably new face on
the block already ridden with beggars and vagabonds of all sorts. I
immediately noticed the fresh face because I've determined that panhandlers
are unforgivably territorial. It's almost as if they rented space from the
city from which to conduct their official business, like a hot dog vendor
does. Panhandlers protect their positions like dogs do, and the reason Bob
first caught my attention was because voices were being raised almost to
the level of an argument. A haggard, drunken old woman who stands in front
of the store accosted Bob, who stood what she deemed to be too close to her
turf. This woman had worked that spot for years; she was usually grumpy and
mumbled under her breath each time I or anyone else refused her begging. So
when she raised her voice to the new guy named Bob, I turned my head to see
"Get outa here! Who was here first, huh'" the woman growled.
Bob, a white man with unkempt hair, who could be anywhere between 40
and 60, slo...