As a lifelong New Yorker, I’ve had an extensive but not deeply examined relationship with panhandlers. In the 1960s they were commonly known as bums or derelicts, and most had a story to sell for a quarter. There was the guy in Times Square who first taught me that bad can mean good, and the one who talked about his old friend Billie Holiday and a pair of shoes he once bought her. And there was the bum asleep under a tree in Washington Square Park. I quietly put half of my corned beef sandwich next to him and waited for him to wake up. I didn’t want any thanks, but I did want to see the look on his face. He unwrapped the sandwich, peeked under the bread, and scowled. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a jar of mustard.
Living on the Upper West Side in the 1970s, I became familiar with disturbed people roaming Broadway, many of them having been dumped from state mental hospitals when the courts decided that people of no imminent danger to themselves or others could not remain institutionalized. Some seemed to lack the skills to panhandle, including one gaunt man in his thirties who wore a gabardine trench coat no matter what the temperature, skulking from block to block and store to store. He would disappear during the winter and somehow reappear the next year—a harbinger of spring.
In the 1980s, there were street people who were not bums or crazies—some of them were apparently victims of the Reagan Administration's systematic denial of Social Security disability claims. My mother, with advanced cancer, was turned down—we kept appealing and she "won" a month after she died. In her memory, I often gave to beggars who appeared sick or disabled.
In the 1990s, while walking from my apartment on 104th Street up to Columbia, I often felt a part of the familiar faces of a small town. On the corner of Broadway and 106th Street one man would say over and over "Spare-some-change-appreciate-it?" in one William-Carlos-Williamsian American beat. A few times I saw him give money to someone even less fortunate. On 107th and Broadway, the guy with the brown corduroy jacket would chant "Spare some change for a cup of cawfeee?" Once, I handed him my container of coffee. He smiled and toasted me with it.
One summer afternoon, the sky blackened instantaneously and rain came down in torrents, sending people scurrying for shelter. I wound up sharing an awning with three street people, including one I hadn't seen before. One of the familiar faces said to the newcomer, "I haven't seen you around here. What's your name?" "Eddie," the newcomer replied. "What's your last name?" "Oh, I lost that a long time ago."
One can't give to everyone, all the time. "I'm sorry I can't give you anything," I said once, and the man's face ballooned with rage. "Don't you ever, ever say you're sorry for me." At the other end of the spectrum: A young man asked for money, saying he hates himself for asking. He looked healthy, but it was freezing and I could only imagine what it would feel like to be sentenced to an outside prison. I gave him a dollar, and he said nothing but followed me as I walked away. I turned around to face him, and he implored, "You're not angry at me, are you?"
Sometimes I'd go for days or weeks without giving anything, partly so I didn't have to decide who got and who didn't. I reached the point where I didn't feel bad about not giving, but always felt good—for a few seconds—when I did. Then, one frigid night about 10 years ago I met my match.
A guy on Broadway and 115th Street asked if I could help him out, and I gave him a quarter. He thanked me and held out three subway tokens, asking me to buy them. "People give me tokens, but I got no place to go. I need to buy food." I excavated the crumpled bills and change in my pocket and separated four singles and two quarters. I gave him the money and he spotted a 10 still in my hand. Without giving me the three tokens, he said, "Let me have the 10 and I'll give you more tokens." Why not? I gave him the 10, but he still didn't give me any tokens. "Thank you," he said. "You're a good man."
"What about the tokens?"
"Oh no, you said you were giving me a gift."
I got furious and sputtered for my money back, but he kept shaking his head. Finally, I said, "Look, just give me back the 10. Keep the rest of the money."
"I'm sorry, I just can't do that," he said, clutching my money.
My blood rushed to my face, and I snarled, "Then I'm just going to have to get a cop. Do you want all that trouble?"
"You do what you have to do. But I just can't give you this money back. I just can't do that."
I walked away, getting some satisfaction that he might be afraid for a while that I was getting a cop. When I calmed down, I realized that if I had—out of largesse—given him the $15, I would be feeling pretty good about myself.
Upon examination, it may be that the one common denominator whenever I gave a hand-out—until then—was that I maintained the upper hand. But that night, for a few minutes, I skulked down Broadway cold, angry, and broke.
The author is a professor of writing and the director of pedagogy in the School of the Arts.
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