From The Mouths Of Babes
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| Fickle Pickle Fun! |
(I will tell you now: as a vendor, if I’m not busy, I don’t
mind it if you stop by my booth and browse and talk to me with no intention of
buying anything. I’m stuck here
anyway: you might as well provide some entertainment. Besides, your presence often acts as a buffer, drawing in
potential customers who are otherwise afraid of a possible onslaught of
full-on, hard-sell attention from me.
My point: don’t be afraid to make eye-contact or strike up conversations
with artisans selling their wares: we’re not all going to pressure you, and
you’re not wasting our time at all.)
So, knowing that it’s a little deflating to be ignored, I
have started at least making eye-contact and smiling briefly at the homeless
folks who are stationed at key street corners on my errands around town. Naturally, I peel out and screech away
from them as soon as the traffic’s clear, but at least I’ve left them choking
on my dust with the knowledge that I momentarily recognized their existence.
My attempts to be polite backfired recently, when I took Mr.
C on some errands last Monday. We
were approaching an intersection that almost always comes with a transient
(complete with misspelled cardboard sign), so I made eye-contact with him and
lifted my hand from the steering wheel long-enough to hold it up, like one of
those Indians from “Peter Pan” saying “How, White Man”. The man nodded and watched me for a
second but – obviously realizing I’m a heartless cheapskate – returned to
scanning the faces in other cars while I concurrently returned to my activity
of waiting for an opportunity to not hit someone. I figured my good deed for the day was done.
I didn’t count on my five-year-old putting a crimp in that.
“Why did you just do that thing with your hand?” he asked,
demonstrating my “How, White Man” wave in the rear view mirror.
“I was waving to the man over there,” I explained, nodding
towards the gentleman, to which we were now abreast.
“Oh.” Then Mr.
C rolled down his window and stuck out his hand. “HI!” he yelled, waving frantically.
(This was my cue to pretend to suddenly be even MORE
engrossed in watching for my opportunity to merge; so, I’m sorry: but I can’t
tell you the reaction of the transient man.)
“What’s his sign say?” Mr. C asked me. Keep in mind that his window was now
open, the man was only about 10 feet away, and Mr. C’s voice tends to carry.
“It says ‘Homeless, Anything Helps’” I read quickly, praying
for an opening in the traffic.
Like, NOW.
“No, it doesn’t,” Mr. C assured me.
“Sure it does,” I responded. I glanced back at the sign and realized that, technically,
it said ‘Homless’, but I wasn’t about to split hairs.
“Nuh-uh,” Mr. C assured me. And then he helpfully leaned out the window and called,
“That’s not how you spell ‘Home’!”
And then I had to wait another full TWO MINUTES before the
traffic cleared enough for me to peel out, leaving the transient man choking in
our Know-It-All-Kindergartner dust.
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