signs

Quite a few homeless people call this city home, and often a guy or a couple of people (sometimes with a dog and sometimes not) will stand on a busy corner and beg for change. Most often there is a sign crafted from tattered cardboard that reads “Will work for food, Veteran, no job, I’m hungry, anything will be appreciated, God Bless.”

One time I gave a guy a spare can of Spam I had in my car. Don’t ask why I had a can of Spam in my car or why it was a “spare.” I’m not really sure why. But the guy didn’t turn down the gift Spam – nor did he look it in the mouth.

I could write and write for weeks about the homeless people holding their signs and being homeless and the conversations I’ve had with quite a few of them (and the conversations I’ve had with some of the mental patients that I cross paths with who live in half-way houses, which we also have quite a few of in this town).

But the other day I saw something a little different. Same type of guy, same traffic-y type of location, same tattered sign tucked under his arm, only this time the sign read, “One dollar a bag.”

I looked on the ground around the guy’s feet in an effort to ascertain what he was selling. I saw a coat. I saw his shoes (with feet inside – although I didn’t really see his feet, so it is just my best guess that they were standing there inside his shoes). I didn’t see any bags.

Darn it! I really wanted to know what that guy was selling for a dollar a bag. I wasn’t particularly interested in buying it, but I wanted to know just the same.

As I sat two lanes away waiting for my light to turn green, I noticed that his lips were moving, and I thought for a moment that quite possibly he was yelling out the slogan, “For sale! One dollar a bag!” I wanted to read his lips (not that I know how to read lips, but I always imagine I could if I really needed to know what someone was saying from across the room).

No such luck; the guy was merely talking to himself. When his eyes met mine, I didn’t let that glance linger.

Years ago I learned not to do that. On the other side of town, a woman who had the opposite of cross-eyes, styled a frightening looking frizz mullet, and needed a shave made her living by asking motorists, “Ya got a quarter; I need to make a phone call.” If you made eye contact, then you were next in line for the approach. She was a harmless bag lady, but the experience was frightening just the same.

So I was sincerely frightened for a moment that Mr. Dollar-a-bag would make his way across two lanes of traffic in order to chat awhile. I chat best over coffee.

The light turned green, and I made my way to the highway. I never did find out what that guy was selling – if he was selling anything at all. It’s quite possible that he didn’t know what he was doing there exactly, except to hold a sign that read, “One dollar a bag” and to have a nice little chat with himself.