dailyeatings

A beggar (is there a more politically correct or otherwise less judgmental phrase for this occupation?) stepped in front of me as I left the Randolph Street McDonald’s and asked me for change. He caught me as I was looking around, right before I could pull my headphones out of my pocket, and for a microsecond, my eyes caught his—too late, then, to pretend like I didn’t notice him or wasn’t paying attention. I had looked in his face, and there was no longer any plausible deniability. He thrust his cup towards me and asked for change. I shrugged, told him I didn’t have any and tried to sidestep him. He shuffled with me, and argued that I surely had change from my meal inside. Sorry, credit, I said, putting on some seriously evasive maneuvers now. Oh, fucking credit cards, he replies, angrily. Yeah, sorry, I said. At this point, I’m looking like Barry Sanders in his prime, dodging and juking and just trying to shoulder past the onrushing crowd of Wicked attendees, while this guy keeps following me, berating me for my financial decisions. Fucking credit cards, plastic money, get what you want when you want, huh? Feels good to spend your fucking money, doesn’t it? He kept shouting at me about debts and the death of American society even as I walked past him, put on my headphones, turned and stepped into the bookstore. I couldn’t tell what bothered me more—his anger at having his change-entitlement thwarted, or that a homeless beggar presumed to harangue me about how I manage my finances.