Things were going pretty
uncharacteristically fabulous in my life, and then two days ago I was brought
back to reality by the most bougie homeless man to ever exist. His dietary
choices mixed with my staunch gullibility once again beg the question, “How do
these things always happen to you?!” to which I reply, “Shoot me in the face.”
Here’s how my most recent
interaction with a hobo friend went down:
I was walking to the gym after
work, stopped to watch the game going down at the West 4th Street
Basketball Courts, didn’t get the opportunity to yell, “AND 1!”, got bored and
kept going. All of a sudden a man comes up to me and asks, “Excuse me, do you
have a dollar?”
Now, everyone knows that the
answer to this question is “No.” Not because you’re a bad person, or cheap, or
a liar, but because homeless people run rampant and if I gave them all of my
dollars I wouldn’t have anything left to impulse-buy Pretzel M&M’s with in
my bi-weekly moments of weakness. At this time, I had nine single dollars in my
wallet, which is a rarity, and as selfish as it may sound I was guarding them
with my over-privileged life.
“No, I’m sorry,” I replied to
the man who will now be known as Richie Rich.
“Would you mind buying me some
food?”
Ugh, tug at my heartstrings,
Richie. I literally don’t know what came over me, but I agreed.
“There’s a Morton Williams right
around the corner.”
“Sure, let’s go.”
As we walk and chat about things
like the warmer weather and allergies, I started to take stock of what exactly I
was dealing with. Number one, he was wearing relatively new looking shoes. In my
top 10 most recent homeless-guy experiences, 80% of them are wearing holey
black Velcro New Balances with the pinky toe displayed prominently, so this was
new. Second, he was wearing clean Adidas track pants and carrying a multi-pocketed
Jansport that for the purposes of this story appeared much more high-tech than
your standard shopping cart. Interesting, to say the least.
“I’m really trying to get my
energy up,” Richie Rich said.
“That’s always a good plan.”
“Have you heard of Kombucha?”
Yes, Richie, I’m a white girl
from the ‘burbs who befriends several health nuts, follows fitspo Instagram
accounts, and pins quinoa recipes on Pinterest; of course I’ve heard of
Kombucha.
“I really like the Multi-Green
one. It’s a great detoxifier.”
WHAT WHAT WHAT.
“And I’m a vegetarian so it’s a
great supplement to that type of diet.”
“Yeah, so I’ve heard.”
Everyone stop laughing
immediately. I was already pretty keen to what was happening and it was not
cool.
Richie continues to explain the
different benefits of a variety of products typically found at Whole Foods and
I just nodded in defeat. We arrive at the grocery store and still giving him
some semblance of the benefit of the doubt, I think we’ll go straight to the
prepared food section, he’ll grab a veggie sandwich and his fermented tea
concoction, and we’ll be out.
Nope.
Richie grabs a fucking basket.
So there we are, the Odd Couple
shopping for Tuesday Night Dinner. Richie throws Kombucha, premade samosas, two
Vitamin Waters (Restore flavor), and a box of Boca burgers in his basket, along
with a toothbrush and my trust. It crossed my mind several times to say,
“Are you kidding me?” and dipset, but the small chance that this was maybe the
only thing Richie would eat for the next couple of days coupled with me
potentially being the girl who left a homeless man in the aisle of the grocery
store with food he couldn’t pay for made me stay.
We get up to the checkout line
and he tosses it all on the conveyer belt like he’s done this a few times
before. The cashier looks at me out of
pity and confusion, which is something I’m used to but was much more attentive
to in this situation. I
had let my conscience be my guide and now I was planning on speaking to her in
my office the next morning and putting her on leave without pay, because she
was an idiot.
Everything is rung up to a grand
total of $52.11, which is more than I spend on groceries for myself for an entire week. I swiped with undetectable hesitation and kept the
receipt to wipe off my shame later that night. Richie and I walk out of the
store holding hands (jk) and I’m just about to launch into a full-on sprint
when he says, “There’s a Duane Reade right down the street….”
Really? Really.
“Sorry dude, I’ve got to go.”
“Oh okay, thanks again then!”
“Ohhhh you are so welcome.”
If you think it ends there you
clearly need to backtrack and read some more of my life tales because it most
definitely does NOT, per usual.
The next night, I was walking
with my boyfriend and another friend through the same area. I had just finished
telling them this exact story, and they berated me for being naïve and
oblivious, and I was agreeing but defending it all by saying, “Hey, at least my
karma’s in check.”
We’re about to cross the street
when a man rounds the corner.
“Excuse me, do you have a
dollar?”
They both automatically say no
and keep moving.
I start violently squeezing my
boyfriend’s hand.
“THAT WAS HIMMMM!” I hissed.
Predictable “NO WAY”’s and “Are
you sure?”’s and “GO YELL AT HIM!”’s were thrown around but obviously did not
occur. Richie might’ve been wearing a Rolex and applying a mud mask to his face
when he passed on his way to a candle-lit hot yoga class, but who could be
sure.
So I’m back and arguably better
than ever, friends. For my sake, I hope my life will return to a state of
boring normalcy. It won’t, though, and you’re all welcome for that. Raise
a glass of brewed yeast and bacteria encased in cellulose to being young and
dumb; I have like three more weeks of being able to get away with it!
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