I may have mentioned that the little Humanling and I live in a neighborhood that has access to everything that a private island could possibly put on their rider. Including panhandlers. Make that singular - Panhandler.
I've worked in NYC and have dealt with professional dollar diggers. Eventually, it is possible, even for a Save The Worldish weeping willow like me to callous up the retinas and look past these people while also ignore the handout speech of anyone who isn't touching you. Where I live, the same protocol seems almost bizarre.
It's a small town, focused primarily on its downtown. Everyone to be seen sits lazily outside on the green, walks up and down the main strip or looks penetratingly unapproachable sucking down their coffee at the eccentric coffee house. Anyone that I haven't listed is probably ordering a dollar draft and a jagermeister shot at the bar next to the railroad tracks. At one point if I had installed a camera in Cavey's primal head of hair, I would have had the much awaited Beer Channel, in said bar's exotic locale.
After a packed day, Humanling and I decided to go for a walk while it was still light out. It took us about 25 minutes to go about 50 yards since she decided to bring her flimsy plastic skateboard with her. When we passed a church that we pass reguarly, we decided to look in the door, which we've never done. Through the window, like a literature stalker, I was checking for pamphlets that I would take sometime when the church was actually open so that I could learn about one of the 5000 different denominations of Catholicism. A woman came and opened the door. It's basically near 8pm on a Saturday night. She invited us in and gave us a tour of the church. She also told Humanling to go right ahead and tickle the church ivories and get right up to the altar to check things out. She had no fear of HL's little potentially destructive fingers tainting anything in the centenarian building.
In the middle of listening to HL's musical staff defiance, a man walked in the door and started talking to the clergy, who had been showing us around. As I coaxed my musical genius off God's piano bench and made our way to the pew where the plastic skateboard had been sitting, the man looked over and asked clergy for six dollars. He must have. It didn't register with me right away but I did hear her say no. Then without a beat, he named me "Miss" and asked me the same question.
It's amazing how our brains work in a matter of mere seconds. I stopped myself from asking "What for?" because.....well....we're not married. I don't know him. I suppose it doesn't matter What For. My next thought was "Only if you don't buy booze with it. And give it to my ex husband". I really was thinking about a booze restriction clause. And again, realized that I was fighting controlling the situation somehow. And then the absurdity of it all. I am invited into a closed church, a man walks in during my pre-date with church and asks me for money. And not even a dollar. Six dollars. Without saying another word, I took out my wallet and pushed past a $50 bill. I found seven dollars and gave him the six.
He did say thank you - not overly and abundantly expressed, but mentioned nontheless.
I wasn't bullied into this. I could have said no.
I could have said sorry, don't have my wallet on me.
Sorry, I am a single parent trying to keep my head above water while I am going through an expensive divorce that so far has siphoned $3500 out of me and resulted in me dropping my lawyer and most likely obtaining a shiny new ulcer while I go Pro Se and represent myself against my ex's lawyer who does double duty as a Judge.
But how do you turn down 'helping' someone while standing in front of a stained glass mural of Jesus? Plenty of people reading ths would have an answer for that. I am fortunate enough to have the money to give. By no means am I with disposable income. But I did have six dollars to spare, next to the $50 that was given to me today during a moment so rare, it could have been the 8th wonder of the world.
The man left with his huge backpack. The clergy woman apologized to me and insisted on writing me a check for the six dollars, while telling me how nice that was. I felt like that moment when you bump your head on the car after trying to duck into the back seat to get something. That moment where you know something happened but for a second are trying to register the what and the how.
I told her not to worry about it. That the whole thing was so random - the tour and the man - that it was meant to be that way for whatever reason, that I can pay it forward because people have helped me.
Tomorrow morning we may just be checking out this new church. Especially since I cleared it ahead of time that we are allowed to be incognito and that no white spotlight will land on us, prompting me to tell everyone who we are and why we are there, while showing off my favorite shade of crimson.
I could be called a sucker, and that's ok. Believe me, if that's the worst thing I can go through, I'll start monogramming the towels now.
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