2004-10-22 � Jesus Prefers PalMals. He Will Settle for a Parliament
I�ve been told by many that the following account is completely Soonerverse worthy, though it has been some time since the actual occurrence. Many have already heard the tale, though it is my hope they enjoy the rehash. I can say, without question, that in person this story goes over big.
As you probably know I work in the downtown district of a rather depressed city. There are still fine institutions of high finance with enormous corporate interests here (see e.g. TERROR), but the employees are commuters and the benefits of all that finance are not noticeably realized in the immediate vicinity. There are many complex reasons for this, most having to do with the particulars of New Jersey political structures, some with the proximity to New York City�THE City�and even a few with local municipal corruption. It is, what many would fairly describe as a �rough neighborhood,� though there are certainly far rougher to be found.
As I have said I work in a commuter city and as a result my Midwestern sensibilities drive me absolutely insane attempting to navigate the tremendous flow of traffic into and out of the city during rush hours, so I take public transport to work. I read the paper and listen to the radio on my walkman, while someone else worries about making the next light. It�s a dream, really.
Between the library and my bus stop there is a crack hotel. 
The most direct route takes me right by this hotel. I call the walk from work to the bus stop �Panhandler�s Row� for obvious reasons. There are many street people, most with serious hard core drug habits or untreated mental illnesses, who approach all the people leaving work for a dollar or two. You know for �food.� I find this to be sensationally intolerable.
I am that person that every homeless citizen loves. They can spot me, sniff me out of a crowd, zero in on me with no effort. I have a soft spot for the down on their luck and if I could help every one of them I would. I think they instinctively know that. I can be in the very center of a pack of twenty people walking down the street and I will still be the one singled out by the vagrant asking for bus fare. It makes me nuts because I feel awkward saying no, though it is the answer I always give. It makes any friend strolling down the street with me even crazier.
I therefore assume that every day between work and the bus stop I will be solicited at least twice for money. I have developed a number of strategies in an attempt to combat this situation. First, the walkman. I have large, noticeable earphones that I wear when walking down the street even when the music is not on. This gives me the freedom to avoid eye contact and fail to respond to oral solicitations. The earphones say �I can�t hear you, but I�m not rude. I�m just in my own world.�
Second, I carry a paper. I walk down Panhandler�s Row reading the paper, or appearing to read it as the case may be, a tad more secure behind the Metro section. The paper again assists in avoiding eye contact while providing a physical barrier between me and the smelly solicitor scratching his scrotum absently on the street corner.
Even still I receive a couple of solicitations a day. I can only imagine the number I might receive without my protective gear.
Regardless, one day I was on my way home from work. I had my headphones, though I�d forgotten my paper that day. I set off toward my bus stop, pretending to rock out to the sounds that were not coming from my radio. I was less than half a block from the library when I first noticed her ambling haphazardly toward me.
Just ahead of me was a bald woman. Bald like Charlie Brown or a cancer patient. Wisps of hair fluttered in the breeze high above her shiny scalp. She was wearing a blue business suit. It was clean and pressed and polka dotted. It had also been designed sometime during the Regan administration. It featured big pillowy shoulder pads and V shape that would have been right at home in an Eurythmics video. In addition to the law school there are a number of government agencies and social services with offices in the neighborhood. It looked to me as if she�d landed a thrift store special to look beautiful for a meeting with one of these agencies. Her wild eyes indicated to me that the meeting had probably gone woefully wrong and her situation had not been improved by what she�d been through.
On the street ahead of me were two other commuters, both headed toward the transit center. One was a dapper looking man with a briefcase. She approached him, put two fingers to her lips, shook them a little and said, �cigarette? You got a cigarette?� Captain Briefcase blew right by, never acknowledging her, never breaking stride. She pivoted as he passed her, still pantomiming smoking a cigarette.
Next to pass was a woman whose three inch heels told everyone looking she was all business. She strode confidently down the street with her head up high and her breasts swelling skyward. I found myself hoping she smoked. The bald woman approached Commandant Stiletto, this time stepping in front of her to block her path, and again made the international sign for bumming a smoke. �Cigarette? You got a cigarette? You got a cigarette?� Commandant Stiletto took it entirely in stride, performing a complicated sidestep that involved a 360� turn and a pas de basque without losing any forward momentum.
I cursed silently. I�d hoped that one of the pedestrians ahead of me would pause long enough for me to scoot past unmolested, but this was not to be. I rocked out to my imaginary music a little harder, and let my eyes drift away from the bald woman. I silently wished for a miracle, but I knew none was forthcoming. She was going to stop me and demand a smoke. Worse, I was not as graceful as the two ahead of me and our exchange was likely to be much more involved. Sometimes I hate my life.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw her set her gaze on me. She ambled clumsily in my direction, and though her course was not straight, I was unmistakably her destination. I felt my cheeks redden and my heart race a little. She got close enough to put her hand in my line of sight and she used it to refocus my attention on her.
This, also, is a Midwestern thing. Growing up Oklahoman can be a complete handicap in the bustle of the East Coast. In Oklahoma people speak to each other on the street as a matter of course. Moreover, when they speak they say polite, chit-chatty things and rarely do they swear or scream at one another. To fail to acknowledge your fellow humans on the street is considered the height of rudeness. If both parties are moving at a clip in opposite directions eye contact and a nod certainly suffice, but acknowledgement is given none the less.
Here if someone is looking you in the eye as you pass on the street that person is casing you and will soon attempt to steal something you value. Taking the time to speak to strangers on the street is an enormous waste of energy, time, and precious breath and, worse, has a tendency to slow you down. Things must move along faster here, and to be polite to your fellow pedestrians all you have to do is make every effort not to block the sidewalk for those moving faster than you are. It�s a very different standard.
Needless to say, if someone is actually trying to get your attention on the street it can never lead to any good. When her hand went up into my line of sight to bring my gaze down to hers it was for all intents and purposes an involuntary action for me to comply. Our eyes locked and then she put her hand to her mouth exposing me to her invisible cigarette. Her lips parted for better pursing and I was assaulted with the worst breath I have ever smelled. And it was no wonder given what I saw beyond her lips.
Her teeth were all missing save for two or three in front, those brown and soft with rot. Her gaping maw was nothing short of horrendous. Her eyes bugged out a bit and she tilted her head alarmingly. Then she yelled, �cigarette? You got a cigarette? Cigarette?� Presumably she was yelling her request to be heard over my imaginary music.
I let the headphones settle around my neck and shook my head. It was my intent to keep walking and exit the situation as quickly as possible, but after a couple of rejections her ire was up. I looked away from her but I never should have. With speed belying her poor physical condition she reached out and grabbed my shoulder. I turned to register protest and she clamped on to the other shoulder. She drew me in close and appraised me for a moment. I could feel her fingernails threatening to break my skin as her grip tightened. She was clearly outraged.
�JESUS IS COMIN�,� she bellowed, �AND YOU CAN�T GIVE A BITCH A SMOKE?!�
I was startled. First she was touching me. I never expected her to touch me. I�d never been touched by a solicitor in Panhandler�s Row before. Then again, I�d never seen a bald woman in a polka dot business suit on Panhandler�s Row before. In addition the noxious fumes coming from her mouth were disorienting at best. And she was yelling at me.
And what exactly was the implication? The world was ending; I wouldn�t have time to smoke all my ciggies prior to the rapture; therefore refusing to hand one over was the height of selfishness. After all, since Jesus was comin� they�d just go to waste. Sweet wasted tobacco. I clearly had no heart.
I broke her grip explaining inelegantly that I didn�t smoke so I wasn�t carrying any cigarettes to share. I was unnerved and a little shaken up.
I no longer take the same route to my bus stop.
Posted at 4:36 p.m.
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