Begging for an Answer
As I paced the corner, the wind picked up and gray skies dropped lower. A spit of rain splashed my face. I stood on Halsted Street, looking up through the telephone wires. Here comes the bodhisattva, as the Buddhists say, the clouds like a robe billowing round his head, a smile informing his almost insane and acrobatic function. “Uh-oh, I’m gonna get it!” I turn my shoulder to the slanting drizzle.
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I transfer to the Orange Line, and I’m daydreaming as we pull into the Roosevelt stop. My brooding is interrupted by a high-pitched and lispy voice. I turn and see a beggar, a man dressed in his worn-out cool.
In other countries people pay beggars for exactly that. He seems to be who he says he is…bad circumstances. He moves on to the next car, and I ride along, the city spread out before me, gray in the rain. What’s that old joke? What’s a mile long and has a thousand assholes?
As I was thinking this through, a panhandler shuffled by. He was wearing faded sports clothing with tongueless basketball shoes. He looked to be a bit of a wino and, it turns out, he was heading toward a liquor store. There he was, the noble beggar I had just eulogized. He turned toward me, and I stood there. Ignoring my noble thoughts, he walked unsteadily across the street, unaware of the traffic. I wanted a drink just about then too.
