Stupid

The other day I gave money to a guy on the street. It was quite a lot of money, in the usual context of those things. At most, you tend to jangle around in your pocket for change, right? Maybe, just maybe, you reach for a dollar bill. More often, perhaps, you don’t reach for anything at all. But this time I was stuck. I fell pray to a Grand Ploy, to a masterly salesman’s pitch, to a sense of pity and guilt and humanity and gullibility and fear and, perhaps my greatest flaw at that moment, selfishness.

“Miss! Miss, could I just talk to you for a second, please,” the man said. He was standing on the corner of 12th Street and 6th Avenue, clinging to the handle of a rolling suitcase, extending one hand in a desperate plea. I had just gotten out of my last class of the night and was rushing to make it to a dance. Had I crossed the street upon leaving the school building, had I seen the minefield ahead and cut a wide circle around it, I might have escaped the impending mindfuck. “Please, don’t worry, I’m not gonna attack you or anything. I’m just a stupid ol’ fag in trouble. Could you just hear me out for a second?”

I should have counted to one and fled. I should have pleaded lateness, invented a missed deadline. These very thoughts ran through my head as I stood there, unmoving. Why wasn’t I moving? Something about this poor soul. He seemed despondent but not crazy, at the end of some rope, but more in an anguished everyday-stress sort of way than a twitchy, strung-out, Must Keep at Arm’s Length sort of way, as if one form of distress were more deserving of people’s time than the other, as if it were legitimate for only a certain kind of overture to be answered by the willfully oblivious.

“O.K.,” I said. “Go ahead.”

I’d challenged him to a story, and boy, was it a good one. Something about being a minder of costumes for The Drowsy Chaperone. “Do you know The Drowsy Chaperone? You do?! Oh, good! None of these other idiots running around have ever heard of it. Wow. So…” Something about getting locked out of his apartment down here and needing to get the keys up there and urgently needing to get at the costumes, which were locked inside the apartment, and the fate of something or another riding on his ability to get into the damned apartment, and oh, god, how he hated having to ask this but he really was in dire straits. All this accompanied by gesticulating and deep sighs and frantic glances up and down the street, and he wasn’t getting to the point and I really did need to go, and so finally I said, “O.K., all right, so what is it that you need?

“What do I need? Oh. I just need cab fare. I need to get up to 81st street and back down here.”

My wallet was out. Why was it out? I looked inside. All I had were bills larger than I would ever, under rational circumstances, think to give to a stranger on the street. But I was caught up in it now, entranced by this man’s impressively specific tale of woe. I was so busy imagining Broadway dancers with no clothes and the ensuing uproar and this poor “fag in trouble” losing his job and then really being in trouble that my usual common-sense mechanisms had gone into lockdown. “Cab fare, eh?”

“Yes! Cab fare. I promise, you can hold my iPod if you want to. I can give you something to take as collateral. I just need the cash because I need to get to these things before I’m totally screwed.”

If I walked away and his story was true (not that I’d ever know), I would be the villain-bitch punch line at his next cocktail-party performance. If I walked away and his story was untrue (not that I’d ever know), I might feel vindicated and yet at a morally relativistic loss. If his story was true and I gave him the money, my karma points would shoot through the roof, and only happiness and light and subway trains waiting in the station for me, and only me, would be guaranteed for at least the next, oh, month. “Here. Just take it. It’s enough to get you up there, if not all the way back down. That’s all I can give you” (all I can bear to give you, all I am physically capable of giving you, all this lockdown mode will abide).

“Oh, thank you!” He reached for the money. I noticed for the first time that his hands were rough and coated in grime. Not quite costume-handling hands. “Thank you, thank, you, thank you. Seriously, what can I do -- do you want to see the show? If I could get you tickets, would you go? Can I reach you somehow, to pay you back?”

I wanted it to be over. At the moment the money left my possession and became his, the reality had socked me in the stomach. I didn’t want him to be able to reach me. I wanted him to go away. And yet he was insistent.

Then, another train of thought: My denying him the ability to prove himself would be yet another form of cruelty, a judgment on his dubious character. It would mean that in the end, even though I had given him the money, and even though I had in so doing ratified the ostensible truthfulness of his story, I did not believe him. And in denying him access to me, I would have passed a final, callous sentence.

I took out a business card. “Here. You can call me at this number. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Oh, great! Great. Who should I ask for? I mean, I don’t want to bother you. I don’t want to get you in trouble. Is there a secretary, or--”

“What? I don’t know what you’re getting at. Just call me. Or leave a message. That is my number. If you call it, you’ll reach me, and only me.”

“Oh. O.K., I just didn’t … O.K.”

“Listen, I have to go. I really am trying to get somewhere.” I was already backing away, turning to leave.

“O.K.! Thank you so much! Really, this is such a huge help!”

I descended to the subway and swiped my card. I stood there waiting -- no train waiting for me. I realized that if he really needed to get uptown and back, I could have insisted he come with me. I could have bought him a Metrocard. I could have forced him to prove the veracity of his claims and watched him get on a train. But I had not. I’d handed him enough money for a good meal or maybe enough to put him well on his way to a good fix. I’d been the perfect mark. The perfect chump. All in the name of good karma. And where was my freaking train.

Comments

[Tony S]

A few positives, if I may: First, he said miss, not m'am. So you know you're not looking old. Second, you learned something about human nature -- yours and his. You could be sitting in suburbia, with nada happening and no life experiences to speak of.

As a native New Yorker, though, I will say that avoiding situations like this is all in the eye contact. Once the eyes connect, you've already lost the battle so to speak.

Anyway, as a reader, I'm glad this happened because you can tell one hell of a story when the occasion arises. Guess you need to be angry. Great post.

[colleen]

i have done something similar. fufe approached me and told me he was stuck, missed his flight, needed to just change the flight or some such. I fell for it, hook line and sinker. gave him 40$. felt VERY stupid when i got to the restaurant to meet my friends and told them about this guy - and THEY filled in the rest of the story. with a british accent? uh, yes. stuff was in the hotel vancouver? yes. and on and on. :S

happens to the smartest and best of us. sucks tho, eh?

[aimee m.]

i've always believed karma was a flexy beast, much more than the old back-forth, in-out. so you got scammed; happens to everyone with a teaspoonful of human compassion. of which there are only, it seems, a few tablespoonfuls left for the world. chalk it up to an accidental good deed, performed in opposition to what city common sense might teach. but then again city wisdom comes from fear, not friendship.

[luci m]

I have no idea who you are but I am sitting here laughing my ass off because I too have been approached and fallen victim to this man not once but tonight, twice!

About 2 months ago I was walking through the northwest side of Union Square at 10 pm when this same man came up to me with his rolling suitcase and a bicycle, exasperated and yes, despondent. My brisk walk and averted eyes did not stop him from calling out to me, "Excuse me ma'am, can I ask you something for a minute." The same... "I don't mean harm" pleading gay in the name of safety. A lonely girl whose dead ipod deserted her in the name of uninvited random encounters.

I was so transfixed and horrified by the same story of being locked away from his Drowsy Chaperone costumes that I engaged in this exchange! I let him go on, finish his story, threaten me with impending unemployment and yes, tempt me with those elusive free tickets.

"Where are you going sir - How much do you think you'll need?" (How much do YOU need? Who is this guy to me! I don't owe him anything!)

"West 60s, it should really be no more than $10 each way."

Let me take a moment to tell you I never, ever bestow charity on anyone in this city. Never once. I count my quarters, tip when appropriate and donate to the proper authorities. At the time of this run-in I was also unemployed and counting dollars. I wasn't taking cabs, but subway rides only when truly necessary and here, I find myself opening my wallet and emptying ALL OF ITS CONTENTS to this poor man who was put together well enough to make me believe...

As I was being showered with "thank yous" and giving him my secondary e-mail address under a pseudonym I caught the line "I promise to make you believe in humanity again" and it was then I knew I was fucked.

While the contents, the entire content, of my wallet could have been no more than $20, I mourned the loss of my precious dollars. We parted very bitterly in the name of a deed well done, an impending job offer waiting to be had, simply put, the good karma.

I was so embarassed by the fact that I had fallen for this cockameme (sp) story that I have told no one [until tonight]. I was also superstitious that if I told no one, those tickets would come my way and so for several days I made a point to check that secondary e-mail even though those dirty figernails certainly spoken the truth.

While I put this encounter and my <$20 behind me, I thought I saw him a second time in Chelsea, suitcase in hand and the familiar feeling of humiliation brimmed to the surface. Who was this man and who was he telling his Drowsy Chaperone story to? How many New Yorkers??

So tonight I was walking hand-in-hand with my boyfriend at the intersection of west 10th and bleecker when who approaches us but our favorite new york city bum! He asked us to excuse him if he was interrupting anything after he asked "English... English?" - very astute, my boyfriend yields from Cyprus.

He asked if he could have a quarter to make a phonecall because he had been locked out and as he was about to go on I abruptly cut him off and said "Let me guess... something about costumes and the Drowsy Chaperone..." to which our friend simply shook his hand and quickly said "no no..." as he backed away.

I was utterly disappointed. What was this? A downgrade? 25 cents? Did he know how much a phone call was in this century? Had he received enough today through his story spinning that a mere 25 cents would neatly cap off his evening?

He couldn't have even feigned embarassment for my personal satisfaction when I called him on his own story. Damn I was disappointed. I can't find it in me to feel bad for this guy - I'm still bitter about the empty wallet in my dire time of need but I have to wonder what it is about our human nature and the empathy we felt for this talented storyteller's tale!

After dinner I thought we could give Magnolia bakery a try but disheartened by the line that wrapped around its side, I decided to just walk to its adjacent park and watch others eat their cupcakes instead. Mr. Drowsy Chaperone was ending another night in New York with a snooze on a bench, his one arm on that precious suitcase, his leg neatly crossed so as not to disturb the crease on his pants. My boyfriend noted that he was certainly dressed well-enough to pull this story off apparently more than once. After seeing a movie I came home tonight and googled a few things "suitcase man new york cab fare costume" and here I am, thrilled with your brilliant rendition of my same story. It is literally line-by-line the same, my apologies for your larger denomination of cash.

He is certainly a talented professional and a member of the neighborhood. I wonder how many stories he has and which are currently in rotation. I'm not all bitter anymore, I kind of like to think he keeps these numbers, business cards, e-mail addresses tucked away in that suitcase of his, waiting to be struck with his own karmic grace.

But for now, simply put, I can confirm that we have been had.