Beggars Can be Schmoozers

By Nicholas Stix
New York Newsday
NEW YORK FORUM
The URBAN ‘I’
March, 1991 (I neglected to write the exact date on my clipping, or this photocopy of it.)

“COULD YOU BUY me a frankfurter?” the homeless man in front of the Plaza Hotel demands of me. He shoves a coffee cup under my face, invading my space for a few tense steps. I say, “Sorry,” which is already more breath and manners than I usually waste on aggressive panhandlers.

I give rarely, and then only to charmers. A fellow whom I have passed will call out something funny (“I’m looking to make the down payment on a free glass of water!”), or wish me a good day without an edge of sarcasm, and stop me dead in my tracks. The ones who are surly to begin with shout threats and curses at those who don’t feel obliged to buy some good will. An alternate method of intimidation is used by the guys who get on the train and announce, “I’m not out mugging people, and I don’t want to do that.” What do they want, a medal, or the chest to pin it on?

As I cross the street by the Plaza, the man yells at me, “You know what your problem is? You’re stingy!” Without breaking stride, I retort over my shoulder, “You know what your problem is? You’re a schmuck!” He gets in the last word: “You won’t say that to my face!”

He’s right. He looks too crazy to “do the dozens” with, and I’m not interested in a fight.

I’m here to see Woody Allen’s latest movie, “Alice,” at the new “Loewy’s,” as my old man calls it. Until a few weeks ago, this was the Paris. The new management attracts pretty much the same crowd. As an educated, Jewish New Yorker, I’m obliged to attend every new Woody Allen film, or lose city residency.

Within minutes, the panhandler I just argued with is working the line to the box office. It’s a long one, and it’s cold. We’re paying for the privilege of spending yet another hour on the ticket holders’ line.

As he works his way toward me, he informs the crowd, “I accept $100 bills.” Some people laugh nervously, but they are not amused. This is not a “liberal” line of people who think it’s politically correct to indulge the homeless.

His appearance hardly ingratiates him to the crowd. The olive drab army jacket covering his shrunken frame is in decent shape, but not the grungy black cap rolled down low on a scrawny face marked by a goofy, half-crazed grin. How tasteless, what with Bloomie’s only a block away.

Finally reaching me, he sticks his cup in my face not once, but twice: “Sure you don’t want to help?” Not looking to mince words, I shake my head twice in a silent “No.” I’m relieved that he doesn’t recognize me.

After buying my tickets, I head off for a warm cafe and hot coffee. Near the corner of Madison and 58th Street, I see him approaching from my left side. I try to ignore his shouts. “You’re a smuck [sic]! You won’t say it to my face!”

The s.o.b. is not only insulting and harassing me, he’s mocking me in the bargain! Out of exasperation I cock my head and tell him, “You’re a schmuck! Now I said it to your face!”

We both roar with spontaneous laughter, each equally startled by the other’s chutzpah. He extends his hand, which I shake greedily. “I didn’t think you’d recognized me.” We part warmed by broad smiles.

I used to have two signs that determined whether a man was my friend, or at least worthy of friendship. Since I no longer feel up to drinking till dawn, until a new thing comes along reconciliation – coming to terms after a serious conflict – is the only sign left to me.

An hour later, after I’ve met my girlfriend in front of the theater, I’m back on line with all the other ticket-holders. Now I’m looking forward to the panhandler doing his rounds. I know I can never again turn a cold shoulder to him. As the olive drab army jacket and grungy black cap approach, I feel my pulse quicken. In my pocket is a dollar bill, folded small enough to palm to him unseen in a handshake. But my heart sinks, and I feel a chill wind on the back of my neck: The panhandler isn’t him.