I’m feeling pretty bougie walking the sidewalk into Lake Placid on my own today. I take time to admire the perennials in front of The Mirror Lake Inn, and stop to look across the water for glimpses of fall’s first blushes. I love this little village. My eyes find loveliness in every direction. Confident and purposeful in my hiking pants and Eddie Bauer shirt, I think I might pass for a local.
My bougie ebullience is due to my destination. I’m here to buy fancy olive oil in a store that sells nothing but fancy olive oil. I shouldn’t drive an hour and not take advantage of a couple of other favorite stores too, right? I map out a mental route that will take me to Emma’s Creamery, then backtracking I’ll hit the bookstore, and finally buy enough of Dan’s favorite Meyer Lemon infused olive oil to last him until we make it back to the North Country.
It's about two-thirty in the afternoon. One little scoop of Moose Tracks ice cream won’t ruin my dinner appetite. A couple is blocking the entrance to Emma’s while trying to decide whether or not to go in. “It’s really good, if you’re wondering.” I explain, feeling even more local-wise imparting this knowledge.
“Oh, we know!” She replies, and he opens the door, then they follow me into the narrow shop. Once I get my scoop, which I am persuaded to have topped with hot fudge and whipped cream, I debate about sitting right up in the shop window, but it’s so nice outside I choose not to be on display with my decadence. I walk back towards the olive oil store and stop at the first bench available in front of the Lake Placid Library. As I prepare to sit down and dive in, I catch sight of a man’s head poking up behind some shrubs between me and the library’s entry. “Hi, how’re you today?” He calls as I park it.
“Good. You?”
“Have a nice day.” He calls back, out of view now that I’m sitting. I plunge a spoon into my treat and proceed to get chocolate all over my face in a glorious moment of consumption, while wondering why this guy’s greeting me so friendly-like. Lake Placid is a hospitable town, but I don’t often meet someone so effusive in sidewalk salutations. A middle-aged couple walks toward me from the right. I get my answer when they reach the corner of the library.
“Hi! How’re you today?”
“Great, thanks,” the husband answers.
“Can you spare a couple of bucks for my bus fare?” Now, this is unusual. I’ve never encountered a panhandler in the Adirondacks.
“Sorry. I don’t carry cash,” comes the husband's reply.
This scenario repeats itself as I work through the top of my sundae. I consider moving somewhere else to avoid thinking about this man’s fortunes, but instead choose to mix ice cream with a little sociology observation. Halfway to the bottom of my bowl, I conclude most people give one of two reactions. Some smile and apologize for having no cash. The rest hurry past without making eye contact. Each time he is refused he says, “Ok. Have a great day.” No one offers aid or assistance.
I can’t see the man, only the people walking by. I wonder if it’s obvious to them he plans to buy drugs or alcohol with his hopeful bills, but I can’t tell from his voice alone. In my mind I start a picture book manuscript with a twist on the classic of giving a mouse a cookie, or a moose a muffin, but my version goes, “If you give a bum a buck, he’ll most likely buy some heroine with it.”
A long time ago, I was fetching my father from the train station in Philadelphia, when I walked within a couple feet of a vet in a wheelchair waiting for passersby to put money in his hat. “I don’t carry cash, but can you use a Wawa gift card?” I had several in my bag from student Christmas gifts. His appreciation and my knowledge that he wouldn’t be able to buy opioids with it spurred me to keep Wawa gift cards in my bag whenever I went into the city. But this is not the city. And I’m not prepared with any gift cards to local C-stores. What should I do if he’s still there when I get back from my next shopping stop?
I do my best to clean my lips of remaining fudge while I walk to the bookstore, then take my time making a selection and chat with the clerk even longer than my normal chattiness to delay my walk to the olive oil store. I hope the friendly panhandler will be on the bus when I get back.
No such luck. I hear him delivering his same shtick with all the people walking ahead of me. I pass the bench where I ate my ice cream. “Hi. How are you today.” He is consistent and persistent despite having been turned down by every person I’ve seen go by.
“I’m pretty good.” I answer when it’s my turn. My husband would kill me if he saw this.
“Can you spare a dollar or two to help me get bus fare?”
I stop and reach in my bag, pulling out my little wallet. “Where you need to go?”
His eyes don’t meet mine, but dart wildly in every other direction. “I got to get to Elizabethtown to see Ms. Barton. It’s really important I get there.” He’s definitely strung out, but I already have a rare spare dollar in my hand. I flatten it to its full extent as his long dirty fingernails reach for the other end. He’s still explaining the importance of this visit, but I interrupt as he takes the bill. “Stay clean, man. Ok?”
“Yes, yes thank you.” He is momentarily abashed as his eyes find the sidewalk. “Have a great day.”
I don’t know how much bus fare is, but my dollar won’t get him far. Did I do the right thing to help get him to his parole officer or social worker, if in fact there is one?
The two dollars left in my wallet won’t get me much olive oil either. All bougie bliss will be gone when I whip out my Visa Card for my own extravagant needs.
Your Turn: How do you deal with helping folks like the one in this story, or with the guilt of not helping them?
I was driving in Denver and saw out of the corner of my eye the passenger window coming down at a busy intersection. My friend Bob rolled down the window and had some folding money crumpled in his hand. He yells at a homeless man sitting on the curb but now trying to get on his feet, “How ya doin’? Don’t get up…here, I’ll throw it to you.” And he tosses a crumpled bill at the man’s feet. Bob rolled up the window and I said, “What did you throw?” Bob replied, “A $100 bill.” I told Bob, “You went to heaven and hell in one fell swoop.” It was actually $20. But I give Bob credit for proffering help…