DUDE, THAT'S MY CAR
I've recently had a few weird encounters with complete strangers that were just a little bit bizarre. For instance, last week I was walking back from the Washington office to the hotel where I was staying. I stopped at a sandwich shop to grab some quick food, and on my way out, a homeless man asked me for a quarter. I gave him my change, which I believe was sixty or sixty five cents, he thanked me and I moved on. Like any big city, homeless people are everywhere in DC, and sometimes I give them money and sometimes I don't. I'm as guilty as the next guy of sometimes just ignoring them too. But, I never feel good after giving a homeless person money. It actually makes me feel worse. Why should I be so lucky and have everything when they have nothing? What did they do to deserve this situation they're in? Did they make a big mistake somewhere along the line, or did they never have a chance to begin with? Are they homeless because so many of them are mentally ill, or are they mentally ill because they are homeless?
Years ago when I was in Chicago, I got know a homeless man. He never told me his real name, everyone in the neighborhood just called him Biggie because he was a huge man. Biggie was one of the most fascinating people I've ever met. He loved to read, especially mystery novels, and when he had some money, he would go to the dollar theater to sit in the air conditioning and take in a movie. He had a couple of homeless friends who he looked after because they weren't as mentally sharp as him. He was polite, friendly, and had a great sense of humor. I don't know what ever happened to Biggie, but when the police decided to kick him and his friends out of the abandoned building they were staying in, they did so by hitting him in the stomach with their nightsticks.
So there I was, walking back to the hotel with a sandwich under my arm, when I got to a corner and was waiting to cross. Another homeless man yelled to me from across the street asking for money. I was in my own little world, and didn't answer him. He then began screaming at me, still from across the street, "WHY DOES NO ONE WANT TO HELP A HOMELESS GUY!"
This is where I kind of lost it. I tried telling him that I had just given my change to the guy right over there (who could probably hear us yelling), but it was no use. Not even a trial lawyer could win an argument this guy. Our shouting got louder and people were stopping and staring. Finally, I just gave up and walked on.
I was still steamed when I got back to my hotel room, and that's when the phone rang. I answered it thinking it was going to be the front desk telling me that there was a mob of homeless guys in the lobby waiting to kick my ass, but instead it was John from MCI who wanted to tell me about some of the great long-distance rates he had for me. I cut him off saying "Dude, stop. You're calling a hotel."
"You mean a hotel room?"
"Yes, this is a hotel room."
"Oh, my bad." -click.
But wait, there's more! Two days later, I was back home and I went to the post office to pick up my mail. In the parking lot, I was sitting in my car flipping through a week's worth of junk mail when my driver's side door flew open and a guy was standing there. This startled the hell out of me and I think I yelled "Jesus Christ!" The guy looked at me and said "Oh, wrong car."
I grabbed the door, slammed it shut, and unclenched my fist. It's truly amazing how many thoughts went through my mind in the millisecond it took to turn my head when I heard the door open. It wasn't exactly my life flashing before my eyes, but it was more like "How the hell am I going to fight off this car-jacker while I'm wearing my seat belt?"
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