clicketyclank

more and more often, when people pass me on the street, they ask me how i came to be this way. usually they're people who claim they have nothing to offer me except their conversation, for which they profusely apologize. i quickly reassure them that good conversation is priceless, and since i'm not an addict of any kind, and have more than a few pounds to lose, their lack of clanking coins in my Folger's can might be a blessing in disguise.

besides, those who do contribute to my small fund don't want to talk, and most of the time, they don't want to ensure the descending coins make it into my makeshift savings account, much less put them in my actual hand. i'm actually pretty certain that one fellow, a frequent dropper of green generosity, has never even looked me in the eye. i see him observing me from a block away many days, but he takes a sudden interest in campus traffic if i show any recognition of his gaze. he just turns his head towards the street, refusing to acknowledge our silent exchange.

i find this man quite peculiar; always strolling along in a light brown suit that attempts metrosexuality while concurrently being nearly bald and carrying a mundane black briefcase. then even stranger, he is noticeably intimidated by me; a stationary mound planted on the pavement. he tenses, his step quickening as he nears. he reaches into his right pocket. i know the traditional pocket-reach quite well, and i know that it usually means i'm getting change. but the brown fellow, as i've begun referring to him internally, never reveals so much as the jingle of any change in his suit pants. i look him in the eyes, or rather, at his eyes, every morning that he passes by, hoping one day his fear will no longer burden him. but time and time again, he holds the bills tight between his thick fingers until his face can no longer be seen, at which point his crumpled offering makes its way out of his hand and lands a couple feet away from my concrete dwelling.

his avoidance of me says, "here. take this money. so long as i don't have to deal with the guilt of the world's atrocities, i can spare a buck or two."

you can see why conversation is sometimes worth more than anything else a passerby might offer. in fact, most of the time, i'd take a conversation over the many diet cokes, double cheeseburgers, and single cigarettes i am given (i don't smoke, but i hear that if i did, i might feel otherwise). so, when asked the question, "how did you fuck up your life?" i make sure to tend well to my answer. really, i'd converse about anything at all, just to be seen as a fellow being for once, but i feel particularly compelled to elaborate when someone wants the story. perhaps i give them too much information, i'm not sure, but i do my best not to seem like i'm complaining. i just want to give them what they want for once. after all, even people without addresses need to give a little charity.