I had lunch today with one of the friends who helped with the homeless camp cleanup this weekend. She told me that as we bagged up hundreds of empty 40 ounce beer bottles, she was hit by the reality of “where the money goes.” Most of the guys who stay in that camp fly signs. She said she didn’t think that people would give money to panhandlers if they knew the money was going to buy drugs and alcohol. I guess it didn’t occur to me that people don’t already know that.
I don’t give money to panhandlers. The ones who know me quit asking a long time ago. If somebody needs food or water or a blanket or help accessing services, yes. But money, no. Except for one time when I saw one of my friends on Tate Street and he asked me for a quarter “to use the payphone,” and I said, “You know you can use my cell phone. What do you really want the quarter for?” And he said, “I only need 25 more cents to buy a beer.” And then we both started laughing, because we were both so surprised that he actually told me the truth. And then I shocked both of us by giving him a quarter. Not for the beer. For being honest.
