Friday, July 01, 2005
Life Lessons
I am generally a pretty compassionate person. I give to the United Way, I never make fun of children or the handicapped, and I once adopted a sick squirrel and nursed him back to health. Which is why, when I first moved to Chicago, the city pretty much ate me alive. Every time some fragrant, lurching homeless person screamed at me to give him change, I was ready with a fistful of coins and an ear receptive to his various tales of Ellen’s plot for world domination and the tiny green men inside our heads. I would estimate charity took up 99.5% of my time; the other .5% went to watching Moolah Beach on (then) FOX Family; I never slept.
But I quickly adopted the appropriate citified mannerisms that helped me avoid dying of exhaustion – quickened pace, averted eyes, rapidly muttered "sorry," and the like. Soon the homeless became just another part of the enchanted backdrop of urban decay, along with obscene graffiti and abandoned Wendy’s storefronts. I wasn’t necessarily a better person, but I was a more efficient one.
Last week, however, I was approached by a woman who really caught my attention. Hysterical and covered in blood, she informed me that she was HIV-positive, three months pregnant, and miscarrying. She needed $26 so she could get a cab to Mercy Hospital. Unable to refuse such a desperate request, I forked over $30, and watched her run on her way, feeling a little odd about the situation, but glad, at least, to have helped another human being.
Until I found out that she had approached each of my neighbors, in turn, with the same story at three different points in the last six months! And we had each given her money! What had seemed like an Oprah moment was actually a Dateline-esque scam!
So the lesson is simple, right? Don’t ever help people. Save your cash for Taco Bell and blow.
I am generally a pretty compassionate person. I give to the United Way, I never make fun of children or the handicapped, and I once adopted a sick squirrel and nursed him back to health. Which is why, when I first moved to Chicago, the city pretty much ate me alive. Every time some fragrant, lurching homeless person screamed at me to give him change, I was ready with a fistful of coins and an ear receptive to his various tales of Ellen’s plot for world domination and the tiny green men inside our heads. I would estimate charity took up 99.5% of my time; the other .5% went to watching Moolah Beach on (then) FOX Family; I never slept.
But I quickly adopted the appropriate citified mannerisms that helped me avoid dying of exhaustion – quickened pace, averted eyes, rapidly muttered "sorry," and the like. Soon the homeless became just another part of the enchanted backdrop of urban decay, along with obscene graffiti and abandoned Wendy’s storefronts. I wasn’t necessarily a better person, but I was a more efficient one.
Last week, however, I was approached by a woman who really caught my attention. Hysterical and covered in blood, she informed me that she was HIV-positive, three months pregnant, and miscarrying. She needed $26 so she could get a cab to Mercy Hospital. Unable to refuse such a desperate request, I forked over $30, and watched her run on her way, feeling a little odd about the situation, but glad, at least, to have helped another human being.
Until I found out that she had approached each of my neighbors, in turn, with the same story at three different points in the last six months! And we had each given her money! What had seemed like an Oprah moment was actually a Dateline-esque scam!
So the lesson is simple, right? Don’t ever help people. Save your cash for Taco Bell and blow.
