I had my coin purse open to fish out the obligatory pound coin to recognize his essential genius, but the panhandler caught me unaware.
For the first time in a four year long daily nodding acquaintance, he decided we should have a chat.
Why? I have no idea.
What did we talk about? Everything: life, love, longing, loss, publishing – you know, the usual.
During the course of the conversation he confessed all sorts of transgressions with the calculating gaze of a conman, but here is one essential rule – never con a con.
I’m impervious. I stared right back and said You are a healthy strong person, you work for your money.
He tried the line about an abusive stepfather, and a long-suffering mother, but I replied So? She could have protected you. She chose him.
-Well, but my father beat her….
I broke in So? She chose that too.
-She was my mother, and I loved her, and I hurt her more than I can ever explain.
I shrugged, again: So?
He tried a few other pitches for sympathy and I delivered a monologue familiar to anyone unfortunate enough to hang out with me at a family funeral, namely: yes, your mother and father fuck you up. More often than not you love them anyway, and the devastation is enormous. But that is no excuse. Not for anything. Ever.
Life is meant to be lived, not lamented.
Most of the mainstream, ostensibly successful people I know would crack in this kind of conversation but street thugs and junkies are not just immune; they’re entranced.
His facade dissolved and I saw the real, raw, true person hovering just underneath.
Without any hesitation he slipped posthaste into a slipstream of hilarious observations and frenetic ideas and plans, admitting along the way to a privileged childhood and a university education superior to my own in all respects.
What did he get from me? I’ll tell anyone who really cares how much I dislike this city, and how much I miss the Northwest. I am completely upfront and uncensored about the ruins of my romantic relationships, growing up in poverty with cancer, and even what I do for a living.
The fact that this happens more easily with homeless addicts than the shiny academics I normally hang out with might be worrisome, if I were a different sort of person.
His dealer man was lurking about glaring and eventually we said goodbye.
As I departed he said Do you smoke? I replied truthfully I’ve never smoked anything, and I never will.