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London was really my first extended time in a Big City.  Before I spent the semester there, I had lived in Atlanta for years, but Atlanta is more like a confederation of strip malls, and you have to have a car, since their subways only take you from one parking lot to another.  You drive to it, and then get someone to pick you up at the other end and drive you to where you wanted to go.  London was where I learned to walk in a city, and London was where I first came into regular contact with panhandlers.

One who lived near the dorms had stolen an elevator repair-man's uniform and would run up to you yelling, "Oi, me woif is 'avin' a bye bee!  The lads let me off work, and oim inna ditha'!  Can yis give coins for a cab?  Oh, it's me first one.  Niva thought oid 'as a kit!" and girls would shower him with coins.  He was a magnificent actor in the British tradition, that is externally.  They like to shout and let the back row know what their emotion is.  He shook and looked as super-excited as he could. 

I didn't give him money, since there were plenty of girls who did, and then the second time, of course,  I knew it was a trick.  Unless she had gone into false labor the first time or he was a polygamist.  Possible!  I didn't let him know I was on to him.  Later we joked about it and decided the best answer would have been to give him a pound and grab his shoulder and be like, "Name him after me, bwah!.  Name him after me.  They call me Texas!!  Texas!!!  Bring him to the states and I'll give you both a job!  Plenty of elevators in Texas!  Could use a man like you!  They call me Texas!!"

I turned myself off to them.  I think earlier in life, like on vacations or when travelling, I was morally conflicted about shutting myself off the way you have to, like canceling my empathic humanity.  But with daily exposure to bullshit and scams, I began to resent the way they counted on that very humanity to ensnare you.  The "Why Lie?  Need a beer!" guy is the only true gentleman in the game.

I became so practiced at ignoring them, I enraged one who, late one night on the foggy cobblestones, on the cobbled foggystones, approached me with that dramatic distress they employ, and I walked right by him.  Like, no eye contact, no hesitation in my walk.  He wasn't there.  He was like, "Sir, oh sir!" and it was as if maybe the wind had stirred up, but even then I might have adjusted my collar.  He didn't rate at all.  It was the most perfect Ignore I've ever pulled off.  He knew it too, and to applaud my mastery he shouted after me, "Nice blank, you fuck!"

Nice blank!  Blank!

So, I thought about that, and I guess it's like when you put a bag down and expect a cat to go in it, and when the cat doesn't you're mad at the cat.  Act like you're supposed to, cuppins!  I know there's no tuna in there, in fact there's nothing in there at all, but you're supposed to look!  Look!  I'm lying to you, but you have to give me the benefit of the doubt, right?  Right?  Hey!  So, then I decided that the blank, was them winning, like they were changing me, making me less human.  Why should I pay for being compassionate; why shouldn't cats be curious? 

The solution was to give the sad smile and the "good luck."  I didn't want to lie, as I've heard many do.  "I don't have any money!" or attack, "Get a job, asshole!" That just makes you a dick.  I figured the best thing to do is just say, "Sorry" and "Good luck."  Neither are really very good.  Sorry seems so...hollow and good luck seems sarcastic, though I try to say it kindly.

In New York, you really didn't have to say anything at all, since they just lie there or are too crazy to ask.  In Montreal I adjusted my "good luck" to "bon chance!" and we were chased by an old man who shouted "You bon chance!  Bon chance fuck!" after us.  

Seattle has lots of panhandlers, it's nice here, they like it, and the cops (does Seattle have cops?  I sped around drunk in a massive truck with a busted headlight for hours last night and never saw one) don't hassle them, so many of the parks and public spaces are full of them.  They usually just ask for money, but a few nights ago we saw a guy see us approaching.  He maybe hadn't seen us see him see us, so he went ahead with his play.  He kicked something in the street and yelled, "Damn it!" as we got close, and then was we were about to pass him, he was like, "hey, can I use one of y'all's phones?"  We didn't break stride, but as I passed I wished him good luck.

He shouted after us, "Did you just tell me to FUCK OFF!?" but we kept walking, and then I heard him running behind us.  I was just going to blank him, (though I could feel him closing, and he might have grabbed my shoulder) but Dagmar gave a fierce turn and was like, "Are you serious?  Is this what you want?"  and I turned too, and saw his face decide, "I don't want to fuck with the creepy bearded dude and his six-foot cage-fighter girlfriend.  Why risk injury and arrest for a lie?" 

What was the play there?  Like, what if we had agreed to let him use the phone?  Does he assume we won't but will offer him a quarter to use a pay phone?  You make a quarter that way.  Thirty-five cents some places!"  

So, now I've decided "Good luck" sounds like "Go fuck yourself" literally as well as figuratively, so I need something else to say.  Out of practice, and it's become necessary.  Maybe it's time to resurrect, "Call me Texas!!" 

O' Diary, back in the habit of looking at comic art again after the success of the last few weeks.  Slippery fucking slope.  Maybe I should have a kid, so there's no question about what to do with my money.  The only thing I know for sure is the bums aren't getting it.

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THE RATNEST #1 - Beautiful and creepy comics by Patrick Keck (Bogwitch).

NOT MY SMALL DIARY #15 - Two-volume autobiographical comics anthology with work by Donna Barr, Box Brown, Max Clotfelter, Brad Foster, Roberta Gregory, Dave Kiersh, Lucy Knisley, Richard Krauss, Carrie McNinch, John Porcellino, Noah Van Sciver and many, many others.

PRIZE COMICS #2 - Lowbrow humor by Hawk Krall (Typhon).

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