41. PANHANDLING FOR LOVE, MONEY, AND SPORT

     Don't judge a man until you've walked in his shoes.
             -- Old Maxim

    "Walk a mile in my shoes, walk a mile in my shoes,
     Yeah, before you abuse, criticize, and accuse,
    Walk a mile in my shoes."
             -- Joe South and the Believers, "Walk A Mile in My Shoes"

     I've walked tall in a variety of everywoman's shoes; Doc Martens, Birkenstock, Chinese slippers, 1950's stilettos, flip flops.....gone barefoot - my dogs done me proud, through every walk of life. Been there and back again, streetwise. And where better to troll for the lively virtues extolling forth from the hearts of humanity, than amongst the daily callings of the panhandler? Panhandling as a term originated with the early gold seekers; wielding a mighty pan in the snaky meanderings of mountainous creeks and rivers. It's rumored every shining stream contains flecks of gold, and vast deposits may lie hidden along winding shores. Minerals are extensions of Gea's natural beauty, mined to Her detriment, and hoarded by the greedy, from King Midas to Wall Street. Mirroring Nature's wealth, the streets of mega-cities form a flow of abundance, a currency, if you will (mind the pun). By tapping into the right corner, at rush hour, one might yield a miraculous, small fortune (or a swift kick).

    The Merriam-Webster definition lacks imagination : "to stop people on the street and ask for money". At the height of my panhandling prowess, there was no obligatory halt, nor airing of verbal demands. Singlehandedly, I streamlined the entire process : my butterfly yo-yo did all the talking (and the rounding-up! Yeehaw!). Negotiations were seamlessly conducted, no need to break the flow, even with a yo-yo wrapped around their legs. Check signing? a trifling interruption in my client's day. McHappy to spare "A Nice Day!"

     Panhandling is all about style. Having hours to spare, hanging out interminably around street corners and café outpourings, we observed a glut of opportunity, for even the least minutely motivated persona to capitalize upon. Distinctly unambitious shoppers, allergic to consumer mentality, we chose to live on a renunciate's budget. Shoplifting fit the bill for the few sundries we needed, however, summoning the bollocks for nicking stuff was stressful and unhaze-like. Smokes, beer, pinball arcades, sci-fi horror flicks (Cronenberg's Scanners and Videodrome were our anthems), and once-in-a-blue-moon dining at East Indian restaurants, were luxuries requiring a bit of creative funding.
     Downtown Montréal's St. Catherines Street provided a theatrical and challenging breaking-ground for subliminal attempts at mass-mind control, for the aspiring panhandler, who may also be classified as a freelance, social caseworker. Hey, we're out there, walking our talk, talking your walk, interacting with no formal prejudice or discrimination (all are seen as worthy of the distinction of donating to our cause). Furthermore, we're not just in it for the money, we listen, too, and DON'T JUDGE! We are more compassionate and accessible than your average government social worker, and, while you are in our sights, you automatically qualify as Number 1! No caseloads! Plus - priceless! - the chance to cash in on a Random Act of Kindness, adding to our pockets and your good karma.

    Yes, we are definitely loitering outside the Metro entrance / exit. Gentlemen (an understatement) here, in suit and tie, under grey overcoats, carrying combination-lock briefcases, fit two categories of the intentionally sterile and corporate-brainwashed-and-fed. Type B : the sexually-repressed, workaholic, businessman / week-end sinner, who, when confronted with a sexy skinhead / silhouetted waif, in fish-net stockings and garters, under a black leather mini-skirt, snapping a yo-yo crotch level, and popping bubblegum in their face, are only too happy to monetarily comply, in a shamefully guilty manner. A few spins of the budderfly and they're sexually-compromised, scampering bleating back to the Missus. Go ahead and rationalize your contribution as a church donation to the Temple of Erotic Street Sluts (slutting for social change).

                                                             Yo-Yo Girl Cop (2006)
     A workday warrior a lot harder to crack is your infamous Type A, Control Freak. Cruel and sado-maschochistic, they enjoy front-siding even the most affectionate approach. Cases warranting special treatment often erupt in mini-scale skirmishes on fresh sidewalk pavement, commanding around-the-world yo-yo provocation. These procedures wind up entailing an extra bit of tooth and nail, yet are well-worth the body-heating altercations in the end. We are no longer talking monetary compensation, but the satisfaction of representing the free-spirited drop-outs of an overall corrupt, compassionless, power-tripping, societal elite, whose money-grubbing politics and religions of despair impoverish the entire living planet of it's rightful role as a Free and Abundant Paradise......aw......you get the gist.....and if you are one of those STOCK-EXCHANGIN', RACIST, WOMAN-HATING, UPTIGHT-ASSED, RIGHTWING, G20-PSEUDO-ILLUMINATI FINANCIERS, you'd receive your share of the Goddess-stickin' gob, variations of the Finger, or, if you're real lucky, authentic curses from the Berliner side of my lineage. Please Note : my Mother does not wear Army boots, obviously, I am the one wearing Army boots, so how can that be an insult?!! Dorks!

     More about my best friends......yo-yos are great Peacemakers, speakers of the universal body language. Spinners of the tall-tale, the glow-in-the-dark variety are sidewalk stars in their own right. A few whistle and hum burlesque show tunes and amusing little ditties. Together, we invade the stairs to a trendy nightclub, reveal a hammy-leg, and catch the eye of peeps in a hurry to pay an exorbitant price for a beer. For mere shiny quarters, they can gratify their inner child, by tipping the trippy yo-yo diva for her sassy orbitals (hurriedly dodging the rest of her Clockwork Orange1 gang, lurking in the shadows). Apologies are in order for aggressively hustling the after-hours, drunken patrons of the Rue St. Denis. Instant karma caught up with us, more than once, for the blatant crimes we committed.

                                                              Woody Guthrie
    However, in defense of the innocent, panhandling leaves one finger-lickin' clean. No harm in asking for a hand-out. The 1932 anthem of The Great Depression, "Buddy, can you spare a dime?"2 dramatizes the inequality and injustices of the capitalist system, encompassing laid-off, union workers; the plight of immigrants; African-American history; rail-riding, banjo-pickin' hobos and wandering Beats; and "the-man-who-used-to-be-your-neighbor" - the now forlorn, broken-spirited outcast, sitting on a stoop, with a card-board sign and an empty tin can. Anyone who hasn't worn their shoes bare from grinding poverty, or run bloody barefoot into the night, overwhelmed by grief, madness, or a sudden turn of events, has no right to judge those who have.

    "Walk a mile in my shoes, imagine an hour of my life." The next time a tragic figure asks a brother or sister to "Spare some change?", be kind enough to acknowledge them, or, at least, say something encouraging in return. "There, but for Fortune, Go You or I"3. Humanity, as a whole, is literally begging for CHANGE - a state of mind we desperately desire to realize together. Does "YES WE CAN!" ring any bells? (Yes! we can bail out the economy by supporting a sustainable, trade-economy, based on Zeitgeist's Venus Project, and, by all means, read Gore Vidal, Howard Zinn and Noam Chomsky, for a realistic understanding of the world we live in).

                          Panhandling for a Better World, Inc.
       A dime at a time isn't a crime. We don't do windshields.

1 Kubrick, Stanley, Clockwork Orange
2 Harburg, Yip, "Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?"
3 Ochs, Phil, "There But For Fortune"


    AFTERWORD :

     Since I wrote this piece years ago, new laws now exist which make "Aggressive" panhandling illegal, and socially, feasibly impossible. Nobody wants to get tasered, approaching a fellow citizen in a friendly, solicitous "Spare Change?" manner, or have what little possessions they own confiscated, or (our greatest dread) be secretly shipped off to indefinite detention centers / PEMA camps. Panhandling, along with the necessity of sleeping in public spaces, for the lack of a warm bed, or a home, for that matter (likely due to mental or physical duress, brought upon by extreme poverty, illness, racial discrimination, alienation, drug abuse, temporary insanity, or greedy landlords / bank foreclosures) has gone the way of subversive actions considered dangerous by Homeland Security, in the War Against Terror. Society has spoken! and mercilessly condemned the down-and-out (beware! lest ye, too, by fate or fortune, become a conformity-challenged individual). I am lucky to have practiced the Dying Art of Panhandling, in one of its heydays, the Reagan / Mulroney years.