Two freeways converge less than a mile from where I live. The main street goes over one freeway and under the other, and it is there, below the overpass, that a group of people converge every morning.
They are mostly men, but there are at least two women as well. They vary in age, the youngest of the group appear to be in their late thirties, all though it is hard to say for sure. The ruggedness and of their features could be caused less by the weariness of age and more a result of smoking methamphetamine.
I pass them every week day on my way to work, and I’m able to observe them in detail because I’m on foot. Some of them do indeed camp under the overpass while others come from somewhere else. The criss crossing of the freeways is an ideal place for them to panhandle, two outlets leading into the street where groups of cars must pause and wait for the light to change. When the flow of traffic is stopped, a single member of the group emerges from under the overpass with a sign in his/her hand, soliciting the drivers for money.
The signs differ, each one seemingly made by the person that wields it. The shortest of the overpass troupe, a younger man with a disfigurement that forces him to limp awkwardly up and down the line of cars, evokes God on his sign: “God Bless”, “May God Bless You”, “Lord Have Mercy”. A man a bit older, maybe the right age for Desert Storm, holds a sign that states that he is a vet, fallen on harder times. A man a bit older with a dirty gray beard and a Giants hat keeps things light with “Need Money to Eat (And A Beer)”.
The women have signs but I have never read them, they panhandle at a different time of day, when I’m not passing by. It’s obvious there is a schedule being followed and that’s what fascinates me. This community of people, down on their luck and very likely in the grip of drugs and alcohol, have come together to organize and agree on a system of panhandling for the betterment of the collective.
They don’t all just rush out, desperately shoving and scrapping for prime real estate, they have come to an understanding, and each person has their allotted time to go out and see what they can make. I imagine there is a schedule of some sort. The veteran from 8 to 9:30 AM, the fella with the Giants hat from 9:30 to 11, the younger man with the God signs and the limp going out all the way through the lunch hour. That’s just on some days though, the schedule seems to change throughout the week to make it fair.
Whatever system they have come up with, it seems to work. I recognize many of the same people today that I first noticed when I moved to the area years ago, the features just more weary and run down. While one member solicits the traffic, the rest talk and laugh and share cigarettes and food. I have never seen them drinking or using drugs out in the open, I have never seen a fight.
I was small talking with an acquaintance not long ago about walking to work and the route I take.
“Shit, right through Tweaker Town USA!” he said.
He laughed and I laughed back, knowingly, but I felt little ashamed. What is the real difference between that community under the freeway and the one’s that this man and I are a part of? We have been born lucky in some ways, with possibly better opportunities and stable families. Do the people at our respective jobs treat us any better than how the people in “Tweaker Town” treat each other? Do we look out for each other better than the people under the freeway?
05-09-13
No comments:
Post a Comment