Thursday, January 28, 2010

The way I remember it, panhandlers were fixtures on the street, practitioners of the hustle who cornered the daytime vampire market well before any of this Twilight shit, shaking down passersby for sundries and coin. Sure, they may have worked an intersection on one day, then an adjacent avenue the next, but by and large they were stationary during the act itself. Custom also dictated that solicitations occasionally were accompanied by a brief explanation for why their ill fortune now involved you, and at times not a single word was exchanged, with only the jangling of a worn Dunkin’ Donuts cup to summon both sympathy and wallet.

Now, some panhandlers bucked tradition and were a little more suspect. Perhaps it was the nice shirt, or the fancy pair of shoes, or the shiny watch, or the CD player, or how the crutch-side leg was favored, but questions would be raised. Indeed, the panhandler-panhandlee covenant may even have been broken, and when you consider how this species of panhandler also tends to be the pushiest, well, what you have right there is a powder keg of indignation. It’s especially volatile if you’re accosted after a long day at the office because it’s, like, oh, of course I should give you some money. You must be tuckered out from listening to music and standing around outside all day.

Never have I encountered a panhandler in a car, however, until today. In case I wasn’t clear, this guy was asking for money while he was driving a silver compact. Only in southeast Charlotte, I suppose, can you find begging evolved to its most luxurious drive-through form, in the parking lot of a Target, no less. I was making a right onto a side street when the fellow started turning into the lot, established eye contact, rolled down his window, and then proceeded to ask whether I could help him out with some cash. I mean, really? Was the irony really that subtle? Next thing you know, I’ll be expected to drop off a donation or two at his house, whenever his schedule permits. I declined, naturally, only to feel a deep remorse later in the day for having missed the chance to ask about sedanhandling. There’s always next time.