"Spare Change, Sir!"

It’s not even 6 a.m. on my walk over to the café. But I have got a few minutes, and a few coins in my pocket to spare. In the damp morning air, that’s not quite bustling with commuters yet, I quickly glance over my left shoulder — at this woman, in desperate need — and I stop, jiggle my pocket, and I pull out the change for my morning cuppa. Why the heck not? I’ve still got a bill in my wallet, and I can break that for my Joe, instead. It’s certainly not the first time, and I can’t imagine it will be the last. 


I continued through the front door of this café, with the light glowing through the window pane in a morning which hadn’t yet seen its first rays of sun, and I ordered my drink. It didn’t take more than five minutes, but I broke the bill and got what I ordered. I stepped back out into the dampness and had to pass by the same woman again on the way, she sat at the bus stop. And without realizing it, she stammers out, once again: ‘Spare change, sir!” Just as though the exchange between the two of us — not even a whole five minutes ago — had not occurred at all. Sure it caught me off guard, and I glanced over again, but her sombre expression was much the same; I couldn’t quite decipher whether or not she'd perceived her error. Despite this, I proceeded onwards to my destination.

The next morning I see that she’s there again, waiting, as before. But frankly, this isn’t something out of the ordinary. As it stands, I simply hadn’t noticed this case, because, I had never frequented this particular café regularly. Not too long before, though, I had seen a veteran in another café spot lingering for a few days; he sat on a set of stairs in front of the entrance; and was holding up a sign, at chest level, written on a piece of cardboard. I had asked him, where it was precisely, he had been deployed, before handing him a bill; and he responded as if by command — with a “Sir,” followed by a specific location and some numbers followed — as though I were a drill Sergeant, of a sort, and would just know what they meant. But I was merely going about my morning. He could not possibly know my rank. Yet, by happenstance, this morning, I’m his superior, with my five-dollar note in hand; and though he fought and sacrificed for this country, somehow, he’s been reduced to this station, to the deepest pit, however cowardly he may have fought.

After about a week, panhandlers typically move on. I had consistently seen the woman, for some time, but then she suddenly disappeared, and it would be many weeks, and a few months, before I sighted her again. One day, from out of the corner of my eye — there she was! — emerging rather suddenly from between a sidewalk trashcan and a hard place. This time, she appeared to be much worse off; and, believe it or not, she was huddled in a manner to conceal what I could only assume to be a crack pipe, and (at this point) she was also profoundly paranoid; and I could tell this with a level of certainty, because, in the next few moments, she jerked her head over my way to make sure she wasn’t being watched as she goes about her business. Even though she sees me, apparently I’m no threat to her. The almost demonic look she gives me, fades into oblivion, as she returns sharply to the task at hand, whilst I walk into a nearby store. After making a few purchases, I leave the store and spot her again. But now she’s sick — so sick that she’s hunched over the trash and vomiting straight into it.

This thought has stayed with me. This, as well as what happened much later — months later — perhaps half a year, when I walked out of the café after a long hiatus, and there she was, again, crossing the road by the store, and walking straight towards me with her hair standing on end like a mad woman, whilst flailing her hands frantically at her sides and cursing randomly with each step. This is the deep pit of Socialism.