It`s cool on this stone bench in the shade of the olive trees.
I watch the pigeons inching cautiously about me. Their cooing is soothing.
I`ve come here to panhandle. I wonder how I`m going to get up the nerve.
Out onto the cobbled plaza in front of San Francisco City Hall I go, under a sun like a spotlight. It`s 10 a.m. I`ll stop people heading back and forth from City Hall. Not women, though. I`m afraid of frightening them.
Here comes a plump man with red tie, dark suit, strands of hair painted across his bald pate. He`s looking down.
”You wouldn`t have any spare change?” I ask. My hands cower in jean pockets. My voice is like a bird`s, thin and fluttery.
”No, sorry,” he mumbles.
I turn to a second man. ”No,” he says. His voice trails off sadly.
A third. This one lifts his wrist to look at his watch, then realizes what I`ve asked. ”No,” he says.
I see a gray suit and the top of a curly gray head.
”You wouldn`t haven to hap any spare change,” I bumble.
He squares his shoulders. His eyes raise to level. He strides past me, less than a foot away. He says nothing, as if I don`t exist.
My heart punches my ribs. He refused to acknowledge me! Does he hate me?
Momentarily upset and confused, I go back to the bench in the shade to think about what has just happened.
So it goes
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I`ve panhandled. I`ve shed the pretense of being the next man`s equal. I`ve let go of pride. I`ve begged for a pittance.
But I had nothing in my pockets to show for it. Why not? Maybe because I look like somebody who should have a job.
I`m 34. I`m trim. My eyes are alert and my voice is clear. At 5-feet-8, I`m not particularly scary. I wear a baseball hat smeared with grease, an old T-shirt over an old wrinkled cotton shirt.
It`s warm, but I wear a soiled jacket to make myself look slightly strange. My old jogging shoes are blotched.
These first four men were probably in their 50s. I decide to try younger men. Maybe they will be more sympathetic.
I ask for money from a guy in a pressed and starched lavender shirt. Then a guy in sunglasses, a guy with his name sewn into his shirt, a guy in 49er shirt, a guy in jogging outfit. I get five stiff ”no`s.”
I hear the sound of jiggling coins behind me. I turn. A stocky woman in white painter`s coveralls heads my way. She`s smiling. Her right hand is in a pocket, jangling change.
”Hi,” I say. ”Excuse me, but . . . ”
”No,” she says quickly. Her smile is gone. I stole it.
I begin to wonder whether I`m doing something wrong.
I`ve approached 15 people, and not one has slowed his or her pace. I walk across the plaza toward the main library. It`s closed.
An old man in ratty clothes is crouched on the granite planter, stuffing a croissant into his sunken face. I figure he is homeless. I sit next to him. ”I`ve just been over there panhandling,” I say. ”Everybody I asked said no.”
”Maybe they don`t have money,” he says.
”But they were wearing suits.”
”There`s a lot of people begging in San Francisco,” he says. ”A lot of competition. Keep at it; you`ll make some money.”
I head toward United Nations Plaza, stopping a guy in ponytail and wire-rimmed glasses along the way.
”Excuse me. . . .” He shrugs at me. He looks sad about it.
I`m zero for 19. A smiling man about 45 comes at me. He introduces himself as Phillipe. We talk of France. He stands a little too close. He invites me for coffee. No, I say, I have to panhandle.
”Maybe you should ask women. Use your charm,” he says. He points. ”Try her.”
A young woman with long blond hair passes. I see she is a federal worker by the plastic pass at her waist.
I intercept her.
She steps sideways and walks faster. I feel guilty. I shouldn`t ask women, I tell myself.
I sit with another homeless man in front of the library, next to his bedroll, and complain again about not getting any money.
”You just gotta have a knack, I guess,” he sympathizes. ”I have a hard time asking people, even for cigarettes.”
I head back to my original spot in front of City Hall, asking people along the way. Now, I`m zero for 44.
It`s been three hours. I`ve taken to holding my hat in two hands against my chest to make me look more pitiable, but it hasn`t worked.
A couple in their late 20s comes by.
”Excuse me,” I say. To my shock, the woman stops. She fishes a purse out of her sack and pulls out two quarters. I hold out my hand. She drops them in.
”You`re the first person who`s given me anything,” I say. ”How come?” ”Well, I have a principle,” she says. ”I give to the first person who asks me each day, and you`re the first person.”
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”How about that?” the guy says to me.
”Thank you,” I say. I am grateful.
I stand there, my hand still out, my dirty fingers closed around the quarters, watching the couple walk away. The man puts his arm around the woman and pats her affectionately on the shoulder.
I give the quarters to another beggar.