Beggars

I feel stupid when I give money to a fat beggar.

And most of them are fat. Their food problem doesn’t seem to be hunger. It seems to be portion control.

So, I usually don’t give to beggars. Even though a person can be needy and overweight.

I don’t give to the beggars who come up to me in the Costco parking lot, neatly dressed, and announce that they’re out of gasoline.

I don’t give to the various beggars who approach me in San Francisco, up to three times in a single city block.

I don’t give to the beggar who wants bus fair to Torrance.

I don’t give to the beggar who wants a hotel room.

I don’t give to the beggar who drives up to me and tells me that her purse has just been stolen, and, as if on cue, breaks out into tearless sobs.

I didn’t give to a wizened old lady in Patzcuaro, Mexico, who was trawling tables in the outdoor café where I was having breakfast. Afterwards, I wondered: why the hell not? I’m not proud of that one.

I know what you’re thinking: "What about Luke 6:30?" ("Give to everyone who asks you . . ..") But if my eternal fate is waterless and warm, it'll be so for bigger reasons than Luke 6:30.

Sometimes I give. There was a woman outside my old office in San Bernardino. She never spoke. She just sat, day after day, outside a donut shop. Her sweat pants had a rip; unless she sat down, her butt was exposed to the wide world. She was mental. Sometimes I gave her a dollar.

Today, an old man came up to me and murmured for money. He wasn’t your stereotypical big-bellied beggar. He was scrawny. I don’t know if it was because he was too poor to buy food, or whether nothing passed his lips that had no alcohol in it. I really don’t know.

But I had no change, so I murmured back a greeting and walked into Trader Joe’s. There was another guy there, a guy I see hanging around the Redlands streets a lot; I don’t know what his story is. He made a hissing, derogatory sound as I walked past the old man. That kind of stung.

On the way out of Trader Joe’s, I saw the old man hitting up a young couple for money. The young guy was reaching for his coin-pocket, but he was hesitating. I gave the old guy my change: fifty-one cents. He took it, but he didn’t say much. I give small amounts, when I give, and expect beggars not to collect their charity from me alone.

At least he wasn’t like the strong young man who asked me for spare change in a gas station parking lot. I gave him a quarter. He gave me a tongue-lashing. But he kept the quarter.

I give a portion of my income to the Salvation Army; somewhat less to the church I sometimes go to. In a lean month, I have to defeat my reluctance to make myself to do that.

I’m no saint; my notion is that God seems to provide for me, so I’d better give a little back. I don’t think that I’m clinging to any so-called "prosperity gospel". I don’t expect God to reward me with riches. I think that he might allow me to get by; and I haven’t "earned" even that by my modest giving.

My modest contribution to the poor gives me a measure of psychic comfort when I pass up the chance to give money to a stranger.

I’m all for helping people. But I assume that most beggars are cons. I suppose I could use my cross-examination skills to test their stories. They’re probably not used to being closely questioned. But instead I just say no, and I remind myself that if they need help, they can go to the Salvation Army, which I regularly contribute to.

If somebody out there has better information about the real neediness of people who come up to you in the street, please share it.

There was a young couple in Pasadena decades ago. The young man would come up to you, dripping with contrition and shame. He said that he was a student at Fuller Theological Seminary, and that his wife was pregnant, and that they’d run out of gas. He asked for help. I knew of this couple by reputation only.

They were prosecuted for fraud. He wasn’t a student. She wasn’t pregnant. They weren’t out of gas. He’d come up with a story that was so good that he figured people would give him money rather than feel guilty by turning him down.

I don’t know what happened with their case.

What does all of this add up to? Maybe nothing. Sometimes I give; usually I don’t. I’ve probably given when I shouldn’t have. I’ve certainly held on to my change when I should have been generous. I hope that my regular giving to the Salvation Army and the church counts for something. Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t.