D and I spent the Independence Day weekend in Ohio celebrating my father’s 75th birthday. We ate, drank, dressed in fancy Indian clothes, entertained and ate some more. All we missed was a local fireworks display, but D experienced bits and pieces of a Bollywood flick in a language he doesn’t understand along with snarky, MST3K-style editorializing from the peanut gallery, a.k.a. my brother, cousins, nieces and me, so that made up for the lack of Flash Go Boom in the sky. I think.
Driving to the airport on Thursday afternoon, I mentally complained about the rising prices of gasoline, plane tickets, hotel rooms, gifts, you name it. How am I going to save as much as I want to at the rate at which I have to pay for all of the nonsense of life? My thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a man walking into stopped traffic at the corner of Poydras and the highway. With a deformed left leg, a resultant limp and the left side of his face distorted into a permanent smirk, this man in his fifties walked from car to car in the hot sun requesting money. The only accessible cash in my car was an old artichoke jar full of coins I keep handy for parking meters and the Crescent City Connection toll.
Thinking the man would think me a cheap skate for giving him nothing but a chunk of change, I hesitated momentarily. An inner voice told me such analysis itself is luxury. Give him the whole jar if you have to, you jerk. Lowering the window as the man walked up to me, I grabbed all the coins I could and placed it in his chafed hands saying, “Sir, I hope all of this change is alright with you. This is all I have right now.” He smiled at me and said it was fine. The light turned green and I was off to the state that’s almost a palindrome.
What is my handful of change or the dollars from the drivers from the surrounding cars going to attain? One small meal, a cold drink and a cigarette, perhaps? “Teach a man to fish instead,” they say. Go right ahead. Yet, I didn’t see anyone handing him a card for free fishing lessons. Meaning that it is so easy for some folks not to give a damn or a dollar and rationalize this decision with what ought to be done instead. I’d agree with their take on the matter if they help create and support legislation for the education and employment of the homeless, mental and physical recovery/coping programs for our disabled poor and a society which would never accept a handicapped, old American begging for money in the unforgiving heat of a southern July noon. But without such activism on the part of the able citizenry and some money, this man is screwed.
I’m okay. If you’re reading this, you’re probably okay, too. The rising price of living is an itch to some, a real bother to others, a huge life crunch for many Americans, but is murder on the homeless and those losing homes during this tough time for the nation. This weekend, my heart is with those who don’t have a car and a home, the rising energy prices for which they can then complain about.
What is my handful of change or the dollars from the drivers from the surrounding cars going to attain? Goodwill. Interaction. A reality check. The smile on a warped old face. Some aid. A small freedom.
