Panhandling Shtick that Works

Every time I have a cold or the flu, it seems, I run into a panhandler in Brooklyn with a unique spiel. I don't know if there's any direct, verifiable correlation between those two things; they just always seem to occur together. Last time around, it was a German asking me to "sponsor abused children."

So I had a bad head cold last Friday, and had just stepped out of the subway when a man-not 10 feet from where that German had stopped me-asked if I could spare a cigarette. Even before I'd finished pulling the smoke from my pocket, he started talking.

I was a bit muddleheaded at the time, my thinking and reflexes slower than usual, so I paused, trying to figure out what the hell he was saying. It might've been the expected pitch for change, but maybe not. I wasn't sure yet. I guess I must've been squinting at him hard when he stopped talking.

"My God," he said. "You're actually listening to me."

You can't very well walk away after someone says that.

"My name's Michael," he said, as he shook my hand. Then he began in with his spiel once more. His clothes were very clean, for a panhandler. His coat wasn't caked in filth and his gloves were intact. He was very well spoken for a panhandler, too, even if his story wasn't all that unique.

He was up from Virginia, he said, though his reasons for coming up here were a little vague. He had a wife and kids down there, as well as a job. He was taking a train back home the next day. Problem was, see, he didn't have a place to stay that night and-wouldn't you know it-he'd lost all his money, somehow.

I was about to shake my head and keep walking, having decided the free smoke was enough of a handout, when he said, "I can't believe you're still listening to me. Nobody listens anymore."

"Yeah, I know."

"Tell you what," he said. "If you can help me out here today, I'll make you two promises." He held up two fingers to confirm it.

"Yeah?"

"First, I'll say a prayer for you."

"Uh-huh?" Lotta good that'll do me.

"And second," he offered with a broad smile, "I'm heading back to Virginia tomorrow, so you'll never see me out here again."

That, I thought, as I reached for my wallet, was undoubtedly the best damn line of reasoning I'd heard from a panhandler in a good long time.