I was particularly aware of this the last time I went up the road to restock the supply of chicken and cheap red bull substitutes that keeps me alive. Having walked past a seated man asking me for change I responded, as is my custom, “Nah sorry mate.”
As I’ve perfected over time, this strategy makes it obvious to the man in question that I am at least in the top 10% of considerate passersby because I acknowledged him and apologised but I also deliver it with a kind of earthy non-R.P tone that distances me from “the man” who, typified by money, perfect enunciation and all other such breaks in life, represents the embodiment of benefits I presume he never had and would therefore draw some level of resentment. “Mate”; the greatest weapon of pacification the middle class, heterosexual, white man has ever got his hands on.
Whilst, as you may have guessed, I’ve spent quite a lot of time and effort polishing this strategy to ensure homeless people I’m unlikely to ever see again think I’m a slightly better human being than the million other people walking past that I’m unlikely to see again either, it has a crucial flaw; if I DO see that man again he will remember me, and the odds of me having had change and lied to him are at the least doubled and we both know it.
I was tired and hungry, which is the modern equivalent of being young and foolish, and came back from the shop with bags only to see the same man in my path.
He sees me coming. I think I see in his eyes a pain worse than life on the streets; for now he knows the suffering it is to be betrayed.
In actually I never had change on me, like any sensible person I pay by card and as a result very rarely have any physical money on my person. I consider stopping to explain this to him but fear it would only make things worse. I could’ve bought him a sandwich surely. There’s a sandwich in my bag now which, being semi transparent under the weight of goods inside it, would easily give away how uncharitable I’m actually being in this situation.
I surreptitiously try to time it so that as I pass him a third party will be between us but I’m sure he knows this trick. I’m sure Old Joe (as I’ve arbitrarily named him) knows every trick in the book and for the purposes of this metaphor you can safely assume that he’s completely literate.
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I’m tempted to look back and say something, even just a glance so that he knows I’m thinking about him. I decide against it, I can’t bear to look back and see the powerful cocktail of pain and anger that must be seething across his face as he watches me and my sandwich walk away from him.
Maybe he’ll remember me.
Maybe he’ll tell other homeless people about me and they’ll orchestrate some way to “get” me.
Maybe homeless people are in fact extremely well organised and, due to their uncertain lives, keep a closely guarded list of people who are deserving of vengeance for their poor poverty relations etiquette. Should this man fall, another will take his place, and he’ll know what I’ve done.
My breathing tightens up for a moment as I realise that I may have condemned myself to an eternity of having to watch my back in case The Guild of The Shelterless comes to reap some vague idea of revenge.
But then I relax. This is nonsense. If they were that well organised I’m sure they wouldn’t be homeless to begin with. Almost every secret organisation will at least have a sheltered hideout.
I get inside, open my sandwich and pull up Google maps to plan my alternate routes around Old Joe.