"Um, excuse me, sir? Look, I'm not a bum," he began, and immediately I knew he was a bum.
I had seen him before, that face looked familiar, and if I remember right, he was doing the same thing the last time I saw him, which confirmed his bumhood. He continued, talking about how little money he had but that he needed only a little more to reach some goal or another--probably bus fare to some other city where he'd ask a new crowd for money. As Angela and I passed and began to tell him the same thing most people do, he held out a lighter.
"I have this lighter. It's a Bic and it works. See?" He flicked it several times till a flame poked from the top. "I just need 75 cents for it."
This was the first time a bum had tried to sell me something. Usually they just want money for nothing, so I was impressed with this bum's enterprising approach. That doesn't mean I gave him anything, just means I found it noteworthy. But in spite of his entrepreneurial style, did he know nothing about marketing and product positioning? Here he is trying to sell a lighter in a district of bars and night clubs where smoking is banned. Duh.
Now if he'd wanted 75 cents for something I might find valuable, such as box seats to a hockey game, I might have given him a dollar and told him to keep the change. But alas, we had no need for a Bic lighter, working or not, and continued on.
Why the activity of asking for change from strangers is called "panhandling" is a mystery to me. There are no pans being handled, as there were during various gold rushes, where the word originated, when men would sift gold from streams using, well, a pan. This term seems to have completely skipped a step in its evolution. The men panhandling today may look and smell approximately like the men who spent days in the wilderness seeking their fortunes, but other than that.... I digress.
Denver has had a consistent population of these figures--bums, panhandlers, vagrants, homeless, displaced, drunks, whatever you want to call them--for years. On two corners of 23rd and Arapahoe are two shelters, and on a third corner is a small, mostly cement park. A variety of frightening characters gathers here, many of them slouched against walls or rummaging through well-rummaged garbage cans, and all wearing a lot of layers, even in the baking sun. What gets me is not their state of affairs but their absolute disregard for oncoming traffic. When one has a need, say an appointment with Mother Nature, in the park across the street, he simply goes (across the street, that is). Flashing or solid "don't walk" signs mean nothing to him, nor does the color of the traffic lights. It's like real-life Frogger, but instead of a frog the size of a sedan, you have an intoxicated guy in six sweatshirts and a raincoat.
The best panhandlers line the 16th Street Mall. On every street corner are two things: Starbucks and some guy doing something wholly unimpressive for money. At 16th and Welton two older guys bang on bongos. I would hear them when going to the gym. An hour later, they'd be thumping out the same chaotic rhythm.
Just a couple blocks away at Stout, a younger man sat shirtless, attacking a bucket with a couple drumsticks. He was by far the loudest, most obnoxious living thing in downtown Denver and probably in the state of Colorado, especially to the owners of the lofts directly above him. Then one day he just disappeared. I imagine he had a confrontation with the one of the larger loft owners and afterward decided that returning to 16th Street with a bucket up his ass might be embarrassing.
"Father Fake" is another favorite, roaming the streets dressed as a priest taking donations. Hardly a performer, really just a fraud. Bit it's a pretty convincing little get-up he's got.
Guitars, saxophones, harmonicas. And if you're lucky, you'll cross one of 16th Street's top talents, it's singers. As you walk the length of each block, one instrument fades out while another fades in. But in spite of the shudders one might feel when passing one of these performers, there is one thing that can be said in their defense: at least they're not selling lighters in a non-smoking city.
On occasion I'm tempted to reward some of these performers by tossing some change or a dollar into their cans and guitar cases. Which is specifically why I don't carry cash. Between the performers and the just plain beggars, a person could easily give away everything he has just walking from one end of the street to the other. I don't want to lie to these peopl, telling them I have no spare change. So I calm my conscience by actually having no spare change. It's a win for everyone!
Now, there is one type of bum who can stand especially tall. When once begging was a shameful act resorted to by only those who truly had no other means of survival, kids are now asking for change on the street. Not the wretched Tiny Tim or Pip types made famous in Charles Dickens novels, but typical high-school kids. Eighty-dollar jeans, hundred-twenty-dollar shoes, a Marilyn Manson T-shirt. He (or often she) takes a cigarette from a brand-new pack, lights it (likely with a lighter he bought from the guy up the street), then asks for change. I know I'm getting old when Your mother must be so proud runs through my mind before telling him, "Hell no. Ask me again after you've sold your pants." And if a high-school kid in tightie-whities approaches me, I might just give him some change. On second thought, nah.