My Half-Baked Solution for Homelessness

The homeless guy, Paul, whom I mentioned at the end of my last post, got me to thinking about a tactic I came up with years ago for dealing with the many panhandlers you run into in Boston. They are everywhere here in the city, especially near banks and convenience stores, places they think people might feel a bit more inclined to pull out their wallets. Some sit glumly with the standard “Homeless veteran — need money for food” sign scrawled on cardboard. The livelier ones work the shuffling sidewalk crowd, shaking paper cups partially filled with coins like a musical instrument. “Hey mister, spare some change?” is the question a woman always asks me from her customary perch directly in the path leading back to work from the Store 24. Some like to tell you stories: their wallet got stolen and they need money to make a phone call. They have children starving at home. I once saw a beggar try some refreshing honesty — his sign read, “Why lie? I’m spending it on beer.”

My response has always been to look straight ahead and pretend they’re not there, which is uncomfortable, because, if anything, I am all too acutely aware of their presence. I see them from a mile away and, as I approach, grow a little taut and move to the far side of the sidewalk, like a baseball player avoiding a tag. I always inwardly cringe when the wretch finally addresses me directly for a little spare change. I don’t feel like a very nice guy as I mock the poor guy’s existence by acting as if a question hadn’t been asked or I hadn’t noticed a hand outstretched in my direction. Feigning a consuming interest in a nearby street sign or a fire hydrant seems infantile. But here’s the thing: I know giving them money will do them no good. It’ll go to booze or drugs. They’ll use it to support a lifestyle that’s dragging them down. If they need help, there’s help to be got — government agencies and charities and the like. If I thought for a moment that giving one of them a dollar would go toward something constructive, I’d do it. But I have no faith that it will.

A very long time ago I gave this moral tussle some substantial thought and felt I came up with a pretty good plan — one that I gave up on after only two weeks of putting it into practice. Hearing about it, you’ll think I was hopelessly naive. But you see, I’m really not heartless; I’ve always recognized the indigent I see everyday as fellow human beings. They’ve always inspired more sympathy in me than scorn. There’s an undeniable “there but for the grace of God go I” aspect of their plight I’m not insensible to. I know each case must be a fascinating story, a cautionary tale if you will, the sort of thing you can use as instructive examples for children: “See what can happen to you? And he started off a decent little boy too!” It has always bothered me to completely disregard them.

So one Sunday I scanned the Help Wanted section of the newspaper (Sunday is the day the listings are really stocked) and I clipped out all the unskilled menial jobs I saw and pasted them onto two or three sheets of paper which I later photocopied at the local Staples. Then I went to the supermarket and bought small paper lunch bags, a quantity of pre-packaged brownies and a like number of tiny cans of fruit juice. Back home, I assembled what I thought would be roughly a week’s supply of packages to distribute to the homeless.

My thinking was obvious enough. I wouldn’t give them money, which they would only use to destroy themselves, but instead I would give them what they needed most: some crude nutrition and the means for bettering themselves through remunerative work. Consider me simpleminded if you must, but you have to admit it made some sense. I figured, at least now I wouldn’t blight my conscience by ignoring them.

So that Monday, instead of avoiding the street people, I actively sought them out with the intention of bestowing my little packets of mercy on those who it seemed might not take offense. But the strangest thing occurred: these people for whom I meant to play benefactor to suddenly became scarce. Maybe the weather that time took a turn for the worst and forced them to seek shelter. Or maybe something instinctual happened — they somehow knew a cotton-headed, self-appointed hero of the downtrodden was trolling for them and they kept clear of me. Often when there was an opportunity, it so happened I didn’t have the packets with me, as it was inconvenient to have them on my person all the time. However, I did hand out a few and and always took care to leave the scene quickly; the one thing I certainly wished to avoid was witnessing anyone’s reaction. To be honest, I felt very shy about it, and really needed to pluck up my courage before approaching a bedraggled, unstable-looking fellow with a gift that could be as easily interpreted an insult as it could a kindness.

The one week’s worth of packets turned out to be two week’s worth. During the second week, I didn’t bother to update the Help Wanted list. Finally I was down to my last packet and had it with me as I entered the subway station one night returning home from work.

Even as I descended the stairs I could hear the drunken song of a homeless man from within the station. Instantly I plunged my hand into my backpack and I extracted the package which might or might not put this wayward creature onto the path to self-improvement. The walls and ceilings in the cavernous place were all tile, so his singing reverberated wonderfully. Finally I turned a corner and he came into view: a big man, somewhere in midlife, with tousled black hair and beard, sitting with his back against the wall and his legs splayed forward, causing the stream of people to veer around him to avoid tripping. A single wooden crutch, old and dirty, was propped against the wall beside him. One of his enormous bear-paw hands was wrapped around a bottle concealed in a paper bag. He was in extremely fine spirits, a jovial Dionysus in rags.

I felt very timid approaching him and, quickly handing off the package, I said, “This is for you,” and kept moving along as I always did. But here my earnest desire to avoid a reaction to my altruism went unfulfilled, because I presently found myself mired in a line to buy a token and the acoustics of the place transmitted sound from every far corner with perfect clarity. So I heard this:

“Oh, look at this, a present! Haw, haw! Now what’s in here?” — a pause — “A brownie! And a little can of juice. Well isn’t that nice! Haw, haw, haw! And what’s this?” — another slight pause — “What the fuck? WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?”

I couldn’t have bought that token and skedaddled out of there fast enough. I prayed the crutch he had was there for a reason, just in case I needed to take to my heels for dear life. As I suspected, not every one of my well-intentioned gifts was received with gratitude. Now I knew.

Since then, I’ve returned to my accustomed way of walking right on by. Every now and again I’ll weaken and give someone a quarter or a dollar. But no more care packages. I’m done with them.

I’m curious to know how other people deal with these daily encounters with the homeless. What do you do? And what’s your reasoning? What should we, as individuals, do?