This morning, on our respective ways to work, a friend and I each had one of those Urban Experiences that scare suburbanites. My friend’s first (we’ll call him Brian, since that’s his name and he probably won’t mind, or at least I hope he won’t because I have no idea how to edit this stupid thing after I’ve posted it): Brian was walking to the railroad station behind two elderly Korean ladies. This neighborhood has lots of Korean folks, which is not a bad thing at all. Their presence means that the old storefronts are filled — sometimes with very interesting things — and there are some good and cheap restaurants. Anyway, one of the little old ladies unwraps her morning Sunpaper (or Seoul Register-Press, or whatever) and promptly drops the plastic wrapper on the sidewalk. Criminy! It’s bad enough when teenagers do this. Little old ladies are litterbugs now? I used to feel bad for the older members of the population, that they had to see their once-beautiful cities crumbling and grimy. Well, now we know why the cities are crumbling and grimy. Our grandmother’s generation had just as little concern for public cleanliness as ours.

And on my way to work, I was approached by a woman in a nylon running suit who claimed that her car had broken down and that she needed fifty cents for a phone call.

Note to panhandlers: If you’re going to make up some cockamamie story about why you want money, do a little market research. Phone calls cost thirty-five cents, not fifty. A guy three weeks ago told me he needed two dollars for the bus. The bus costs $1.35.

I informed the woman that I did not have enough money to fix my own car. She put on a little exasperated act and said, “I only need fifty cents for a phone call.” Apparently, she couldn’t make the simple deduction that if I couldn’t afford to fix my own car I sure as hell wasn’t going to give her fifty cents, so I looked her dead in the eye and said, “I do not have fifty cents.” As she was giving me the official Arrogant Jerk look, I pointed out that she might want to refine her story since phone calls are only thirty-five cents. That must have blown her circuits, because she looked confused and wandered off.

Panhandling is a problem that afflicts all of our major cities. Even otherwise charming Richmond has panhandlers wandering about. The only thing that is going to get these folks off the street is to not give them anything. They do not need the money. How do I know? Because there are, at least here and in DC and Philly, a lot of public and privately-funded programs that make sure the homeless can get food and a bed when they need it. See those guys with the signs that say, “Hungry, please help?” Try asking if they want peanut butter and jelly. I can almost guarantee you they don’t, because I’ve tried and they want cash, buddy. Cold, spendable cash, and they don’t want it for PB&J. In many cases, the people in question are mentally ill, but a quarter from me isn’t the therapy they need. That’s a more complex issue — how to get them therapy; chances are they’ve been deinstitutionalized and have already been turned down by the state. Still, handouts only encourage a behavior that will not ultimately benefit the panhandler, and in the short term lends a rough edge to our streets.

There is one panhandler to whom I’d give money, if I didn’t need every lousy nickel I’ve got. He sits down on Broadway or Thames street and holds up a sign that says, “Why lie? I want a beer.” I appreciate the honesty, and I usually want a beer, too.