The Audacity of Some Folks

"Do not rich men oppress you, and draw you before the judgment seats?" - James 2:6

"Say, don't you remember, I'm your pal? Buddy, can you spare a dime?" - Yip Harburg

o’s the other day, The Omen O’Brien duz me the favor of drivin’ me on over ter COSTCO ter pick up some paper towels, some bottled water, an’ some ass-wipe.  Lemme tell ya, there ain’t too much ter make ya feel like a mighty hunter returnin’ from a successful foray inter the savage jungle like comin’ home with the trophy of a 36-roll package of toilet paper.  Which reminds me of a joke: 

So this Indian (a cowboy an' Indians Indian... not an India Indian) is at the reservation mercantile an' he is inquirin' 'bout what the cheapest possible toilet paper he can get is.  Well, the mercantile clerk, he done sez "Here's this no-name brand toilet paper.  It's the cheapest you can get." 

So the Indian buys a few rolls of it an' leaves.  A few days later, though, the Indian comes back an' tells the clerk "Y'know, I got a good name fer that no-name toilet paper you done sold me the other day."

"Oh yeah?" responds the clerk.  "What should its name be?"

"You should call it John Wayne toilet paper."

"Huh?  Why's that?"

"Cuz it's rough an' it's tough an' it don't take no shit off an Indian."

But I’m gettin’ off track.

So, as I wuz sayin’, the other day The Omen O’Brien is drivin’ me to COSTCO.  Why am I relyin’ on The Omen ter drive me to COSTCO you ask?  Well, as fate seems ter have it, my reward fer doin’ my part to save the earth by ridin’ my bicycle 12 miles round trip ever’ day ter work an’ back is that the battery in my motorvatin’ heap is right dead.  Yup.  The irony is right burnin’.  But I’m gettin’ off track again.

Alright, so the other day The Omen drives me on over ter the local COSTCO in his big red pick-up truck ter acquire a few household necessities that are helpful ter have in such plentifulness as ter make it worth the while ter acquire ‘em en masse from COSTCO.  But him bringin’ me ter COSTCO ain’t the focus of the rant I have to roll out.  What the real focus is, an’ I ‘spose it coulder happened just ‘bout anywheres so’s the whole bit about COSTCO is irrelevant anyhow, is that there wuz this feller standin’ there at the bottom of the entrance ramp ter the warehouse who’s I just gotter say somethin’ about.

You know the type.  Head ter toe in sparkly, overembroidered, overscreenprinted garb that renders anyone suited as such inter a walkin’ billboard fer a myriad of brand name nimroddery.  On the bottom the feller wuz sportin’ some overly baggy black acid-wash jeans with elaborate embroidery of crosses an’ vines an’ tribal-type whackiness on the thighs, the seams, and the buttocks atop a pair of them fancy, multi-paneled would-be exercise-come-basketball shoes that people were shootin’ each other fer in the late twentieth century.  On top the feller had a button up, tails-out black long sleeve shirt decorated in much the same fashion as his trousers an’ a high-perched cockeyed faux-weathered-an’-worn trucker cap emblazoned with some stylishness er another.  An’ don’t lemme ferget the “Love Kills Slowly” monikered factory-patinaed ruck-sack the feller had slung across his back.

So you get the picture, right?  You can see this feller in yer mind’s eye?  Well, as The Omen an’ I done wrangled a shoppin’ cart an’ passed by this guy, you’ll never believe what transpired.  As we pass by, the feller nonchalantly (an’ relatively understatedly, as I assume he were tryin’ ter avoid attractin’ the attention of the COSTCO employees ter his ploy) asks:

“Hey, you guys got a dollar?  Some spare change?  Help a brutha out?”

Now, I don’t make any claims ter bein’ the saltiest tortilla chip in the bag an’ this weren’t no moment of exception ‘cuz it took me a coupler seconds of movin’ past Mr. Ed Hardy hisself ‘fore it fully dawned on me as to what had just occurred.  I mean, I’ve done my fair share of passin’ on dollars an’ spare change ter fellers sportin’ cardboard signs at the bottom of the freeway ramp.  I’ve played the game of wonderin’ if they were really as hard up as they appeared an’ if their marks-a-lotted sob story were truth er not.  I’s even gone so far on occasion as ter drive the north San Fernando Valley’s resident homeless feller to the CVS an’ buy him his choice of wine.  I mean, who am I ter judge what the feller’s gonna spend his money on, eh?  An’ it’s a whole spot better than the sour feelin’ left in yer gut when ya spend some hard earned cash on a Happy Meal fer the hard-up guy who turns out to have no qualms ‘bout pitchin’ that meal inter a trash can soon’s as he figgers you ain’t lookin’ no more.

But I am digressin’ again.  What my original point wuz aimin’ at bein’ wuz the audacity of this here dude dressed in a wardrobe that prolly cost more’n the attire of The Omen an’ I put together askin’ ME fer a doggone spare dollar?  What the Hell?  Is this what we’s comin’ to?  Bums an’ homeless folk more fashionably and expensively dressed than a law abidin’, job-holdin’, upright citizen such as I?  I mean, figgerin’ that even a lowly Christian Audigier t-shirt done run 70 er 80 dollars, I’m figgerin’ a conservative estimate of the dude’s costume at somewhere’s ‘tween 300-400 dollars.  Opposedly, I wuz wearin’ a 5 dollar Salvation Army found Red Kap shirt, a pair of cut-off black slacks that prolly came from Ross er Marshalls a decade ago, an’ some Surplus Store acquired lace-up winos.  Hell, prolly the most expensive part of my wardrobe were my sale-find J Crew boxer shorts with robots on ‘em.  Don’t count my graying wife beater an’ once-white socks ‘gainst me none, if you please.  The Omen in black t-shirt an’ Dickies jean shorts prolly wuzn’t bustin’ the proverbial bank either.  As my nieces an’ nephews have become accustomed ter sayin’: “Even the week ends in WTF.”

I was admonished by my better half later on about how's I should unnerstand that peoples' priorities can be different from one another an' obviously bein' stylish wuz at the top of this panhandler's list.  Now, I can unnerstand that, but if'n yer gonna forego yer rent er yer grocery necessities in order ter outbling the guy next door, don't try an' foot yer bill with any kinda subsidization from my hard earned paycheck, thankyouverymuch.

Don’t mind me.  I didn’t say nuthin’ ter the guy.  I think all I managed wuz some kinda incredulous head shakin’ an’ a relay of the experience ter The Omen as we moved on inter the COSTCO.  But still, it’s been ranklin’ me righteously fer a few days now an’ I just had ter get it off my chest.

Time ter move on, I suppose.

Here’s some assistance fer those of you who need them visual aids…

Old Skool Homeless Guy and Dog Chic

New Skool Homeless Guy and Dog Chic

Yup.  The times they is a-changin' alright...

-Squeezebox Sam