It had been a long day, because it was Friday, and as I’ve said before, Fridays are always long days. I was driving with the windows of my ’89 Ford Ranger down, because the air conditioning hasn’t worked for awhile.
Stopping at the Li’l Cricket convenience store near my home, I just didn’t feel like rolling the windows up and locking up — even though my briefcase and, worse, my laptop were on the floor of the truck. I looked around and saw no suspicious characters. I knew I was going straight in and out — there was no queue — and that I could keep an eye on the vehicle pretty much every second I was in there. And who would be looking for anything of value in my battered, grimy pickup?
Well, I was in and out quickly, but when I got out regretted immediately having left things unlocked, because there was a rootless-looking little guy sitting on the curb just a few feet away. He hadn’t been there before. As I opened the door awkwardly holding my purchases, he spoke up, "Sir…"
OK, here we go.
He started into the familiar story of how he had his momma in the car — waving vaguely over toward a van a short distance away, and if I could just help them out, they could get home. He had been from store to store, and …
"Here, I can give you a couple of bucks." I struggled to get the two ones out of my wallet while the gallon of milk dangled from one hand. I had the two ones, and two twenties.
He was quiet for a moment as I rummaged for the money, and I had a second to take him in. He was about five-three or -four, and couldn’t have weighed more than 125. Grubby jeans, grubby T-shirt, grubby ball cap. Sparse stubble on chin and upper lip. Hard living had made his age hard to guess, but it was between 18 and 30.
Once he saw the bills, the silence ended: "Oh, sir. Can’t you help us get home?" He was taking on a whining tone. "I’m a Christian. I’ll mail it back to you, I swear."
"That’s all I can do for you. You’ll have to get the rest from someone else." There was no way I was giving this guy the rest of my cash for the week, when I was 95 percent sure he was scamming me. Only the 5 percent uncertainty had induced me to come up with the ones. Besides, I’ve always had this attitude — it’s not entirely logical, but it’s mine — that if someone is so down-and-out, or so degraded in personal pride, as to beg, I’ll hand over something, even if I don’t believe the story at all.
But that was it. This was the first time a beggar had turned his nose up at what I had offered him since a guy in New York had all but chewed me out for giving him a dollar. But that was New York, and with this guy, what sympathy I had was floating out to sea pretty fast.
"But sir. My babies… I’m a Christian. I swear…" His chin was trembling. Nobody wants to see a man cry, even a sad little man.
My voice got colder. "That’s all I’m prepared to do for you tonight." I got in, closed the door, and told him through the open window, "Good luck." I was doing the right thing, I was sure, though of course it didn’t feel like it. As Huck Finn said,
But that’s always the way; it don’t make no difference whether you do right or wrong, a person’s conscience ain’t got no sense, and just goes for him anyway. If I had a yaller dog that didn’t know no more than a person’s conscience does I would pison him.
But my pangs didn’t last long. I hadn’t started the engine when the shifty little guy scooted by in front of my truck in a double-time march. I thought he had spotted another likely mark. But he kept going until he got to the passenger side of a red subcompact, and jumped in. The driver was a burly young man with a crew cut. They were backing out before I had completed the same maneuver. You’d have thought they were on their way to a fire.
It crossed my mind that he had seen the two twenties and they planned to follow me. It was becoming clear that these were guys who would do something desperate for 40 bucks. The little feathermerchant I could handle, but the big guy was something else. I was rolling slowly out of the parking lot and considering my options when I saw them tear out in the opposite direction.
Yeah, he’s a real Christian, I thought. And what did that have to do with anything? Was his religious affiliation relevant to the situation? Seems like he was counting on me to be a Christian (or a Jew, or anybody who believes we should act justly and love mercy), and a gullible one at that. On reflection, it seemed his plea was both a compliment and an insult to Christianity. He was perhaps assuming that no Christian would fail to be charitable. At the same time, there had been an ugly tinge of "Look at me; I’m one of the good and decent people, like you. I’m not one of them; you can trust me." Unfortunately, he was right to assume there are those who think that way and see themselves as Christians.
As I drove off it struck me to take a look around the cab of the truck. All right, the laptop and briefcase were still there. And as I looked, my eyes fell on the cross dangling from my rear-view mirror. My daughter had woven it out of a palm frond on Palm Sunday a couple of years back, I had tied it up there with thread, and it was there yet. "But I’m a Christian, sir…" So that was it; that’s why I was chosen as a mark, and why he took that approach.
I decided that next time, I’d take the time to lock up, however tired I was. I might not be lucky again. As for the little con artist, I felt pretty sure I’d never see him again. By now, he was up at the Circle K, pulling the routine on somebody else. Maybe somebody with a fish symbol on his bumper.
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Try what I did in New York. When they walk up with the cup,ask ’em for a dollar.
>> Maybe somebody with a fish symbol on his bumper.
Or NPR on the truck radio
Instead of giving cash, offer to buy a sandwich for him and his mother. Then see how shifty he gets.