But I’m a Democrat

I've been noticing a trend in my jaunts around the fair city by the salty lake: panhandling, it appears, is a new growth industry. I'm sure this has something to do with the economy not quite being done pulling itself out of the crapper, but somehow, I just don't think that's the only factor. Let's face it—I can't be the only person impressed that the panhandler asking for money at the 1300 street exit ramp is a woman who, the Incredibly Serious Local News Station has discovered, lives in a McMansion right outside of Park City which she pays for with the substantive earnings she takes off of naively sympathetic freeway fliers. It's a fantastic story, and while it gives me an excuse not to give money, it has to be inspiring to those looking to break into exclusive club that is the Indigent of the Interstate; let's face it, though—she's got to be the "results not typical" poster-child of the vagabond world.

BUT either her story is to vagrancy what Oprah's story was to Opti-fast, or there's some kind of market swing favoring the cardboard-sign-holders I'm not aware of. It used to be when I got off the interstate at a fairly busy exit, I'd see maybe one poor soul standing in the rain with his sign. Now, it seems, exit ramps are prime real estate in that there is someone down on his or her luck at every corner. Usually, of course, I notice this when I am sitting around in my Perfectly Warm Clothing drinking Piping Hot Coffee and yelling at the other drivers who, like me, are fortunate enough to have any sort of transportation apparatus.

But the sheer number of humanity asking for a little help at each exit ramp seems to be the drifter equivalent of a housing market bubble. In days of yore, I could often be guilted into scrounging up a dollar or so since hey, that guy's been standing in 18 degree weather for over 3 hours; so what if I'm contributing to his Boon's Farm fund? But to have to choose between 3 different requests at the same time? My knee-jerk Liberal Guilt doesn't have the capacity to choose between The Pregnant Lady and The Ancient Old Man and The Guy With The Dog, so I just look away and try to distract myself by wondering what the hell Steven Tyler wrote the song "Ragdoll" about.

Thus it seems that the strategy has backfired, in that the highway begging Old Guard now have to compete with the Young Whippersnappers for spare change, and there's even less of it to go around in the first place, what with all the there-but-for-the-grace-of-God-go-I paralysis that keeps our fingers closed and our car windows up. It just sucks. Presumably it sucks more for those standing on the corner, but it sucks for those of us who are the minions of The Man.

And I realize I'm getting crotchety in my old age because I was ready to snap on a panhandler today. Our building is a little scary, and the stairwell to our basement bunker frequently doubles as a pissoir (or worse), and when I work late, I often get approached, mostly by Assertive But Ingratiating Youth. However, the last time I told this one guy I didn't have a dollar for him, he got mad and started YELLING AT ME. Let's look at our tactic here, dude. I often have the urge to holler at people who won't just give me their money anytime I ask for it, but I'm on medication for that.

Today, the same guy barked at me across the parking lot, bitching because—just like always—I don't carry cash (know your customers, people, please!). I started rehearsing in my head about what I would say to him if he approached me on a more Personal Space level, and I caught myself thinking things like "Stay the fuck away from me," "Do you really want to know if I have a conceal carry permit?" and—as an homage to my parents—"Do you know what I've been doing for the last 16 hours? I've been working. Working my ASS OFF! And suddenly I owe you something?"

I thought of saying these things—of actually saying them to this person whose life was probably a combo-pak of Poor Choices and Shitty Circumstances. ME! I'm a DEMOCRAT, for chrissake! I am supposed to love and cherish the downtrodden, not trod them farther down!

So what's a girl to do with the least of these, my brethren? Continue to avoid eye contact? Say pious things to myself about how whomever at the moment is asking me for money is Exhibit A of This Could Happen To You? I have no idea. I know this is the price we pay for capitalism, and that honestly, there are people in these situations even in the most pinko-Commie societies in the world.

Maybe there isn't anything to help one sleep at night over this. Maybe there shouldn't be. Here's one of my Favorite Scenes of All Time from The West Wing:

Toby, White House Communications Director, is working furiously to arrange a military funeral. When asked about what he's doing, he explains, "A homeless man died last night, a Korean War Veteran, who was wearing a coat I had given to the Goodwill. It had my card in it."

The President breaks in, trying to explain, "Toby, you're not responsible..."

But Toby's on a tear: "An hour and twenty minutes for the ambulance to get there," he says, "a Lance Corporal, United States Marine Corps, Second of the Seventh. The guy got better treatment at Panmunjom."

The President cautions him about all the trouble he's going to for this one guy and asks him, "Toby, if we start pulling strings like this, don't you think every homeless veteran will come out of the woodwork?"

Toby's line is one of the best in the entire series: "I can only hope, sir."

Which totally doesn't help me with my crisis except to make me wonder what happened to the girl who would have done the same instead of writing a bitchy blog post about panhandlers.