“Alms for the poor! Alms for the poor…” A fingertip poked out of his threadbare green glove as his pronated palm violated my personal space. I stopped, wondering if the other hand held a pistol or club inside the pocket of his filthy trench coat. His face, however, glowed in the half-scowl, half-grin that homeless men characterize when begging.
“Alms for the poor? Who the hell do I look like, Charles Dickens? We’re in Denver, dude, not London, and I hate to be the one to break it to you, but this damn sure isn’t the Eighteenth Century. I’m sorry, but if you expect me to give you some money, you’re going to have to be a little more original than that.”
The look on his face surprised me. I’d had many confrontations with beggars on my way to my office on 16th and Welton, but when first rebuffed, most would offer up a new ‘shtick’; something unique and usually accompanied by a streetwise mea culpa grin. Not this guy, he merely turned and started to walk away. This amazed me and left me feeling a little cheated. During the last ten years, I’d come to expect a little more from my morning walk to work.
“That’s right…” I taunted, “Walk away like the pussy you are. No wonder you couldn’t make it in the straight world. You give beggars a bad name! You’ll never be King of Wel—”
The force of his head hitting me in the solar plexus knocked me down and took my breath away. As I lay writhing on the sidewalk trying to remember how to breathe, he bent over me and I felt his fingers extracting my wallet from my pants pocket.
With his head very close to mine, he showed me a twenty-dollar bill and said, “I’m only taking this one, and you can be sure that while you’re up in your cozy little cubicle coming up with new ways to legally rob people, I’m doing it the old-fashioned way. Just remember that we’re the same, you and me, you just can’t admit it.”
Standing up straight, he threw my wallet back down on my chest and smiled. “Here, Mr. Scrooge…” he added, a proper British accent now flowing from somewhere deep within, “I’m off for a spot o’ tea and a proper scone, I am. It wouldn’t hurt you to appreciate the Classics a bit, now would it? Give my regards to the Missus.”
And he disappeared. I suppose there’s a little Dickens in all of us, especially around Christmas time.
Bob Church©12/6/06
8 comments:
dang, thats a hard way to learn about literature...Poetman
Merry Christmas! Now see, if you'd have done it right, he wouldn't have to mug you and show you the error of your selfish ways.
perfection as always... merry christmas!!!!!
Why you little Dickens you! Great story...Merry Christmas!
Well done. I like the
morality lesson,
what ever that is.
klk
I appreciate your comments, as always. I've expanded this story into a novella-length effort, trying to delve into the soul of a man with this kind of chutzpah. I'm even now trying to find a publisher for it, and some other stories I've combined into an anthology about drifters, homeless people and other unconventional folks who I regard as heroes. Most of us can survive when a good job and 3 square meals a day are readily available, but how many of us could do it when none of those things are assured?
A reminder that no matter our social standing, we are much alike. Bob, you amaze me how much story you tell in such few words!
I'm but the instrument, Dan, the story tells itself. And you're right, we're all much more alike than most of us would feel comfortable admitting. The universality of the premise outshines any lack of understanding, if given the opportunity.
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