By David Harrell
“How you doin’, li’l brotha,” he says, offering me the filthiest hand I’ve ever seen.
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“Look,” he says, “man to man, brotha to brotha. I’m just a homeless man out here on the streets tryin’ to survive. Vietnam vet. Just tryin’ to stay alive. You know how hard it can be out here for a black man. I’m tryin’ to get somethin’ to eat. Can you help a brotha out? Whatever you can give–five dollars, two dollars, one dollar.”
I pay for my food and drop the change–75 cents or so–into his palm. “Use it wisely,” I warn, realizing too late how patronizing I sound.
I shake my head again.
I’m still sitting there, wondering what they’re doing with my dinner, when a woman shuffles up to the passenger door. No–it’s a man with a perm and a ponytail. He stoops for a few seconds, then comes around and knocks on my window. He looks half asleep, and a cigarette dangles from his lips. I pretend I don’t see him. He knocks again. Finally I open the window a crack.
“That’s nice,” I say. “Thanks.” I shut the door and lock it.
