Beggars Can't Be Choosers

I shuffle past the Arizona Center and encounter a black, salt and pepper bearded man, dressed in a torn t-shirt and rumpled, dirt clogged blue-jeans. My cel phone is in my mouth, a Styrofoam food container in my left hand, my wallet and $20 showing in my right. Looking at my sordid state of affairs, the lonely beggar asks, "Do you have a dollar or some change so I can get something to eat?" Not quite hearing him, I do my best to muffle through my overpriced plastic transceiver, "What did you say?" He asks again if I have spare pocket change.

Realizing that I had cash boldly displayed in my disarrayed hands, I couldn't lie and say, "Oh, no, I have NO MONEY." He would have looked down and seen it, and how would I respond? Would I say, "Are you going to believe me, or your slowly cataracting eyes, old man?" Honestly, that's just plain mean.

Instead, I remove the small monolith from my teeth and say, "You want food?" He stands there, trying to decipher my question, and looks a little lost. What he heard linguistically: instructions on how to construct a Rube Goldberg Machine with mini-chopstick shaped tweezers in the vacuum of space while contained inside an artificial womb made out of grape jello. Responding to his embarrassingly long silence, and to make my question less convoluted, I shove the container of food into his hands and say, "Here's some food."

Scrunching his nose at my abundant offering, he says, "Oh, I can't eat shrimp. Do you have money?" Impulsively tilting my head toward my shoulder and jutting out my jaw in slight confusion to his response, I respond, "There's no shrimp in there. It's pizza. Look at it." He peeks inside and registers that its ok to eat. Disregarding this new information he asks, "Oh, well can I still have a dollar for something to drink?"

Pointing at the Big Gulp in his hand, I raise an eyebrow and unbelievably say, "Um... You already have something to drink right there." The beggar shakes his cup and says, "Well it's almost empty." I shoot right back, "Ok. Well, take it inside and ask them to fill it up with water for you. If they won't, there's a fountain around the corner." Rebuffed, he says, "I can't just have water. I NEED something FIZZY AND SWEET."

Standing there, my jaw hits the pavement at a ridiculous speed. Becoming instantaneously annoyed with his refusal of life-giving water (which I drink like it's going out of style), my face turns a brilliant shade of tomato, "Look, you asked me for food, you have food. You have a cup for water, and it's available around the corner. You have what you need, now GOOD NIGHT!"

Stomping away, I hear him huff about how audacious my mannerisms were with my apparent refusal to lay myself at his feet. I can understand tastes and preferences, but honestly, as far as I'm concerned: beggars can't be choosers. Maybe next time I'll instruct him to practice the art of gracious living by ruminating around the park and discovering rubberized curiosities he can thoroughly enjoy without any lubricating assistance. In other words: "Piss off if you're not going to be thankful for gifts of food and water."

On a lighter note, I don't have to worry about a high calorie lunch today, since I no longer have any leftovers. Thank god for choosy beggars... those bastards.