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OK, OK, I'll be the first to admit: I give people the benefit of the doubt, whether it be a significant other, friend, foe, or used car salesman. So it should come as no surprise that I fail to question the legitimacy of homeless people asking for money. Sure, I've read the articles about supposed beggars driving away from their day jobs on the street to their comfy homes, but I tend to believe that most people don't have the audacity to lie to your face.
How can you prove their financial status, anyways? Do you ask for their bank account number, to find that they don't have any money in their bank account, or no account at all? Do you check their stools to find out whether or not their most recent meal was a filet at the Palm?
It's the rotten apples – those who lie about their financial situation or funnel your pity money into drugs – that give the homeless community a bad name. I encountered two of these bad apples just this past week.
A burly and shirtless man, visibly dripping sweat from head to torso, crossed my path near Horton Plaza on Friday, slurring, “Got anything for me? I need to get drunk.” At least he was being honest, I thought, as I sped by.
Honesty wasn't the specialty of the next rotting apple I met just a few days before. Sipping another venti iced coffee outside at the Island Avenue Starbucks, a 20-something man with spiked blonde hair walked up to me with his leashed, purebred Boxer in tow. I thought he was going to ask for my number, but instead, I was asked for change. Caught off guard (and embarrassed that I wrongly assumed he was about to ask for my digits instead of dollars), I dug up the last bill out of my purse and handed it over. As he walked away a dollar richer, a homeless man surrounded by duffel bags to my right gave me some insight: “I've seen that guy before, and he's probably blowing that money on blow.” The irony. Here is a man that has gone unnoticed during my coffee break, who definitely could use the money more than blondie.
I am still getting accustomed to the differences between this sunny city and my hometown of D.C., where the extent of begging consists of parking a McDonald's cup on the street; laziness is their forte (no, I'm not talking about Congress here). Similarly, the upper echelon of D.C. – the stuffy Capitol Hill crew and the suit and tie-clad K Street lawyers – have tunnel vision and don't bat an eye at passers-by. Here, the less formally dressed businessmen and women offer smiles and hellos everywhere. It's no wonder the homeless people here don't hesitate to stop you on the street, say hi and ask for help to eat – or, apparently, to get drunk.
OK, OK, I'll be the first to admit: I give people the benefit of the doubt, whether it be a significant other, friend, foe, or used car salesman. So it should come as no surprise that I fail to question the legitimacy of homeless people asking for money. Sure, I've read the articles about supposed beggars driving away from their day jobs on the street to their comfy homes, but I tend to believe that most people don't have the audacity to lie to your face.
How can you prove their financial status, anyways? Do you ask for their bank account number, to find that they don't have any money in their bank account, or no account at all? Do you check their stools to find out whether or not their most recent meal was a filet at the Palm?
It's the rotten apples – those who lie about their financial situation or funnel your pity money into drugs – that give the homeless community a bad name. I encountered two of these bad apples just this past week.
A burly and shirtless man, visibly dripping sweat from head to torso, crossed my path near Horton Plaza on Friday, slurring, “Got anything for me? I need to get drunk.” At least he was being honest, I thought, as I sped by.
Honesty wasn't the specialty of the next rotting apple I met just a few days before. Sipping another venti iced coffee outside at the Island Avenue Starbucks, a 20-something man with spiked blonde hair walked up to me with his leashed, purebred Boxer in tow. I thought he was going to ask for my number, but instead, I was asked for change. Caught off guard (and embarrassed that I wrongly assumed he was about to ask for my digits instead of dollars), I dug up the last bill out of my purse and handed it over. As he walked away a dollar richer, a homeless man surrounded by duffel bags to my right gave me some insight: “I've seen that guy before, and he's probably blowing that money on blow.” The irony. Here is a man that has gone unnoticed during my coffee break, who definitely could use the money more than blondie.
I am still getting accustomed to the differences between this sunny city and my hometown of D.C., where the extent of begging consists of parking a McDonald's cup on the street; laziness is their forte (no, I'm not talking about Congress here). Similarly, the upper echelon of D.C. – the stuffy Capitol Hill crew and the suit and tie-clad K Street lawyers – have tunnel vision and don't bat an eye at passers-by. Here, the less formally dressed businessmen and women offer smiles and hellos everywhere. It's no wonder the homeless people here don't hesitate to stop you on the street, say hi and ask for help to eat – or, apparently, to get drunk.