206/365 Panhandler

In the city, one encounters panhandlers. Some of course are scam artists, sure, but all of them? Probably not. Many are probably addicts of one kind or another, or maybe not. I don't know. I don't know what's in their hearts. Almost every time I get to highway 44, I have a decision to make, or at least a moment when it is obvious to me and my children that the man with the cardboard sign is asking me for something.

The other night we took a bike ride. We took the bikes loaded up on the car down to a trail in south city, an easy one we do when the kids are SO DONE WITH BIKING. We pulled up to the side of the road where we usually start from, and a man, I realize, is talking to Mike as I put Leo in the trailer. I catch parts of the conversation. He doesn't have a place to stay. Doesn't know what to do. Some agency helped him out earlier that day, got him his birth certificate to replace the one he'd had stolen at Larry Rice's (a notorious homeless shelter downtown). I asked him if he'd been down to St. Patrick's, which does all sorts of transitional work with homeless men, but frankly, that's not where my energies go so I don't know everything. He'd been, he replied. He wasn't mentally ill or addicted to anything so they couldn't help him.

So he got to his big build up and asked if we had anything on us.

We didn't. We were going biking. Mike didn't bring his wallet or keys. I hardly ever carry cash and I knew for certain I didn't have any. As I started to tell him I was sorry, he apologized for asking us. He walked away up the hill, quickly, and I went back to hitching up the trailer. It was a few minutes later I remembered the altoids tin I keep in the car for parking meters. It was just spare change, but I could part with it. I said this to Mike, and we both looked up the hill towards Gravois. But he was gone.