“I just saw you sitting here, thought I’d ask if I could get you anything?”
“You have a cigarette on you?”
“You have ten dollars so I can go buy cigarettes?’
I hate when they take you for a sucker, thinking you don’t have the guts to say, “No,” because you were kind enough to offer. I pat my pockets like I always do when I don’t have cash, as if it helps ease the blow when you learn you’re not getting anything from me. Many folks will say they don’t give to the homeless because they’ll just spend the money on booze and drugs. I know smoking kills, and as I learned from the tragic death of my friend, Dwayne, so does alcohol, but I’ve consumed nicotine and drugs for far weaker excuses than sitting on the side of the road, invisible and ignored, with holes in my clothes and dirt on my face, the relentless summer sun of LA beating down on my back, and no place to privately have a bowl movement.
“I’ll tell you what,” I say, “I’ve got somewhere to be right now, but on my way back through here I’ll stop by the store and pick you up a pack of smokes.”
“Marlboro 100′s, please.”
That the homeless have the nerve to be picky no longer shocks me. They are human, after all.
“And some coffee cake. Some coffee cake would be real good.”