The Homeless Suck

                There’s this point you reach, after living in the city long enough, where the homeless stop registering on your plane of thought. It took me about….three, maybe four months before I stopped pretending to check my pockets for change. Another month, and I stop acknowledging them all together. Does this make me a bad person? For a few months after that, I thought it did, but it passed.

         I remember in Church when they would always take up money for “the less fortunate”. As a child I was SO proud of helping others, eagerly popping a dollar or two of my allowance into the offering plate. Kinda funny, thinking back on it. Taking my money, my hard earned kid money, to pay for some wino to ward off death one more night, so he could go back to clogging the sidewalks the next day. Pretty funny, actually.

         I managed to finish both today and tomorrow’s paperwork about an hour before quitting time. Ten minutes of rooting through the break room fridge for unclaimed food before my boss showed up and told me I could go home. “Could”. HA. As if it was a choice. That porky bastard would send me home at lunch if he realized that I could have my work done by then. Going on a year at that damned office and I was still making minimum wage.

         The money thing wouldn’t bother me nearly as much if my landlord wasn’t always on my ass. I miss one month’s payment and he loses all interest in being friendly. I swear, more than once when we pass each other in the hall I’ve heard him call me a “Gaandu”. No idea what it means, but it pisses me off, none the less. Not to seem racist, but sometimes these foreigners are worse than the homeless.

         I hate leaving work early, especially when its approaching closing time anyway. It’s already bad enough leaving at five, when all the other businesses let out. Quitting time rolls around and all of a sudden the business district is covered in ratty, shambling leeches, all reeking of their own filth. Wanting money. My money. And now I’m out here an hour early, in my nice clothes, hanging on me like a target. It’s absurdly hot out, especially for this time of year, and that means they’re out in full force. From the steps of the office, I can already see at least three. I start to plan my route to where I parked accordingly.

         I’m about halfway to my car, a trip which takes an extra 10 minutes of avoiding the various vagrants, when I realize my shoe is untied. I’m not even done with the knot before there’s one right next to me. The smell hits me before I can get a look at it. Moldy urine, with just a hint of booze. “Hey man,” he says. A classic opener. I stuff my shoestrings under the tongue of my shoe, not wanting to waste anytime. I raise up as I move past him, never getting a glimpse past his waste. “Hey! Man!” this time with more force. He’s not gonna be easy to shake.

         I speed up, taking an extra turn here and there, but he persists. “Help a brother out.” he says. They all say. But I don’t hear them. I pride myself on this. In the parking garage now, and the security guard isn’t there. So it follows me inside. I gain some distance on him and jump in my car. I fling it into reverse and floor it, swerving around and heading for the exit. Sure, maybe on some level I saw his head slam into my spoiler, but I’m past that point. Now I have to stop at a damn carwash on the way home. Sometimes I hate this city. I really do.