No Need

I’m used to this.  I’ve grown accustomed to the sight of beggars standing in the midst of the exit for Freedom Parkway.  On my way home, while I’m forced to sit at the light and be begged by pitiful stares for whatever it is they need.   In just a few short months I’ve become proficient at averting my eyes.  Ignoring the trite signs that read “Homeless VET”, “Just Need Food” or some sort of derivative that clearly states,

“I need _____ from you, please”.

 Sometimes a request is offered; Perhaps a promise to work, most times not. One doesn't really have time to give a spiel at a red-light that properly conveys the series of events that lead to their current situation. These people are only armed with signs and open hands. I used to dig around for change or hand out Delta branded peanut pouches that I always seem to have stuffed in my pockets.  

Eventually, I allowed myself to grow cold and almost disdainful, not to be confused or mistaken for apathy.  I'm not apathetic. I'm... curiously skeptical. How deep is your need? How do I know you’re not lying?  Besides, once I give you just ask for more. These experiences and assumptions of their laziness and/or addiction I hope will somehow excuses my aversion and assuage my guilt. 

How much can I give? Every ride from work am I expected to give? And how can I choose?  

The guilt mounts as all the while I'm willing the light to change quickly so that the inner battle that wages in me will cease.

There are too many of you… don’t you know that I can’t give to all of you and how can you expect me to choose?  Ah, good, the light’s changed.  Out of sight out of mind- relief until tomorrow night.

However, as familiar the dance of my regretful if not disdainful neglect and subsequent mental battle with beggars has become, I was not prepared for my experience tonight. 

I see a wheelchair backlit by the headlights of the opposite direction traffic.  I was hesitant to continue my gaze, but as usual, my curiosity overtook my need for preservation. I followed the wheels up and realized that the owner was legless. The lighting is preventing me from discerning anything but the shadow of an outstretched cup.  I squint. My heart is betraying me.  I start to consider my wallet and the fact that , oddly enough, I’m carrying cash.  Before I’m able to fully make a decision to give the light turns and I’m regretful that I’m forced to begin moving forward.  As I draw closer my headlights illuminate the owner.  She’s smiling wildly,  her white teeth are glowing in the night. I assess the clarity of her skin and the attractiveness of her face, the expensive braiding of her hair.  She’s bundled up and I’m disgusted to see a North Face logo proudly displayed on her jacket.  I follow her jacket sleeve down to the arm and the gloved hand that’s extending the large McDonald’s cup. She’s shaking it, expectantly, all the while wearing that disturbing smile and making unsettling eye contact.  Suddenly I’m glaring. Angry.  Incensed that she has the audacity to look neither uncomfortable nor upset.  No torn clothes, no dirt, not even a sign with a sad statement, a sentiment, an excuse. Just the sheer fact that she’s lost her legs enough of a reason to sit at my exit and demand my money.   She has no need.  She just has no legs.