Transient Woman

I am in my car; I am the driver, pulled up to and stopped at a light. I am waiting to turn left. There is a transient woman on the corner, looking directly into my face. Directly, or so I imagine, just as every other driver must imagine, while we fidget with our phones or change the radio station. Any distraction, any device to give an air of busyness, of lost in thought-ness, of I-didn’t-give-you-money-because-I-didn’t-even-know-you-were-there-ness. The woman on the corner holds a sign that simply says “IN NEED.” Nothing more. No sob stories or case histories, no ploys, nothing to make you chuckle and subsequently donate for the amusement. The words on the sign were even spelled correctly, and each letter faced the appropriate direction. A simple statement, so fine in effectiveness, so effective in its simplicity, it shoots through every logical thought, every judgment, every grammatical criticism, straight to our wells, whatever the size, of humanity and compassion. Or so it should. But there’s no accounting for doubts, suspected deceptions, and the fear of being victimized by a scam. With these tools, anything can be justified.

These thoughts, in a situation of the seconds it takes to look down at the never sizeable and steadily dwindling stack of ones in my purse.

I have no job. In fact, I am on my way to an interview as we speak. I have less than fifty dollars to my name (including the changed change in the water jug, less the 8.9% fee (greedy bastards!)), and well over a thousand owed to a mess of places. Self inflicted responsibilities, drowning in them, everything a compounded result of a decision I’ve made. I look back at this woman, in her out dated and ratty jeans, her ill kempt teeth, sneakers dirtied by smog and street corner smut. She stands in the cold, moistened by a persistent drizzle. She has laid down her pride and she begs. I don’t know her reasons. I don’t know what decisions she’s made or have been made for her that have brought her to this specific junction in space and time. Despite her exposure to the elements, her lack of things, her necessary humility, I envy her. For her freedom. And despite my worries and pressures, despite my stress and obligations, maybe she envies me. For my…well, maybe not. Maybe for the respect I can have from others for being “respectable,” for doing what I’m supposed to do. Maybe she doesn’t need that. Maybe she craves it. I wonder, is the scorn of your species a reasonable price to pay for your freedom, for living the way you want to live, or the way you have to live? And what about the price I pay? Is the forsaking of your freedom a reasonable price to pay for the approval of your neighbor, for a completely insecure sense of security?

Theses thoughts, in the mere moment it takes for me to pull my eyes from my purse, and decide to keep my dollar for myself.