The Real Bums of Travis County

I am uninspired to write anything new, so I am forced to rely on some old Facebook notes...


I remember hearing on Oprah, once, that many people are a couple of paychecks away from being homeless. Without researching this alleged fact, I have spent the last year of my life putting away as much money into savings as I possibly can. This has given me a sense of security in knowing that should something unforeseen happen, I am covered. And though I feel ashamed to admit that my life savings could only get me through a month or two of unemployment, I am reassured, thanks to Oprah, that I'm not that different from the rest of the people in this country; I have company in being poor. 

Given the desperate times we are currently facing, I know that "unforeseen" events are becoming a reality for many people. Fortunately, I consider myself extremely lucky to have a job that is somewhat "depression" proof—depression, of course, referring to economic hardship, not the feelings one has while sitting in a closed garage and sniffing the fumes from an idling car. 

As a labor and delivery nurse, I know that people, regardless of the times, will always engage in sex. And sex, when practiced without elementary precautions, leads to babies. Despite the grim economic forecast, many people, even if unemployed and in debt, delightfully participate in this act of recreation without considering that it can lead to procreation. And though many financial critics consider this a huge strain on our economy, I selfishly look at it as job security. 

I am not tooting my own horn, for I know that my employment is based on social need and not one of merit. Knowing this makes me feel a little guilty and undeserving at a time when others are losing their jobs and, consequently, their homes. 

I often wonder if this guilt prevents me from making eye contact with all the homeless people who walk the streets of my city. Lately, it seems they are becoming more and more prevalent. I never notice them on my way to work, which makes me wonder if 0630 a.m. is too early for ANYONE to start their work day. On my way home, however, I see them standing on every corner, of every intersection, holding their cardboard signs while begging for any little handout they can get.

By looking at these guys, you can tell that some of them don't really belong on these corners. Their appearance, though shabby, does not always suggest "down and out." Heck, if some of these guys took a shower, got a haircut, shaved, and wore a decent outfit, I'd go so far as to say that I'd even be willing to date some them. 

These posers leave me with no choice but to believe that they stand on these corners out of pure laziness and with the potent belief that society owes them something. For this reason, it usually takes me a great deal of restraint from rolling down my window, making them think that I am about to give them money, and instead offer them advice on how to correctly spell one of the misspelled words on their cardboard resumes— words like "naybor" or "mony." If I didn't fear for my physical well-being, I would be happy to inform the "Homeless Vet" that Brodie Animal Hospital is currently taking applications. I never do this, though, because who am I to judge if someone is destitute enough to take out a lease on the corner of a major intersection? 

The pseudo-bums just piss me off. The real bums of Travis County, however, leave me feeling very uncomfortable... 

On my way home tonight, I came to screeching halt at a red light. This left me at the front of the pack. I always hate being the first car at a red light, especially when a legit bum is pacing outside my window. Doing everything possible to avoid his stare, I will lean over to change the radio station, or I will take a fake call on my cell phone. It takes more effort for me to avoid him than it would to roll down my window and just give him some money. 

Tonight was different. The pressure was unbearable because the guy standing outside my window wore tattered clothes, had not showered for what looked like a decade, and hopped around on one leg. Exhaustion resided in the deep crevices of his face, and his whole existence was washed over with a pain that many of us are lucky to never experience. His cardboard plea was simple: "I need help." All three words were spelled correctly. I decided to give in and...well...give. 

I rummaged through my purse to find all of $1.25. I felt cheap for giving so little, but it was all I had. I rolled down my window, held out my offering, and as he took the money from my hands, his eyes met mine. There it was; the eye contact I had been long avoiding. As we looked at each other, I realized the very reason I have always avoided such glances. In his eyes, behind the glazed-over numbness from years of pain, I saw a person staring back at me who was disturbingly too familiar; I saw myself. 

It wasn't just financial misfortunes that put this man on this corner. He stood there as a result of a long line of unfortunate circumstances—a history of a multitude of pains which leaves the mind no choice but to surrender its sanity.


In that split second, I recalled all the painful situations I have encountered in my own life and how difficult it was, during those times, to cope. I, fortunately, got through. But my misfortunes probably paled in comparison to his, and I could tell that this man had suffered more in one week than I had suffered in a lifetime. If the tables were turned, where would I be standing? 
 
He took my money, unfazed by the little amount I had to offer, and with gratitude in his eyes and his voice, he said to me, "You are blessed." 

As I drove away, I realized that this was my first "epiphany." I feel ashamed to admit that I could profit off somebody else's misfortune, but it took this destitute man to make me realize something that has always been staring me in the face. "You are blessed." These were not words of gratitude. For a measly $1.25, he stated an invaluable fact. I am blessed. 

We may be a couple of paychecks away from losing our homes, but how many tragic events would it take to render us hopeless, leaving us with no other option but to take refuge on some corner while soliciting the help of complete strangers? I have no clue. But to safeguard my mental well-being, I have compiled a long list of all the things for which I am grateful, and I have stock-piled them into a mental savings account. This has given me a sense of security in knowing that when faced with that one horrible occurrence that threatens to push me over the threshold of sanity, I have way more than 30 days worth of gratitude to fall back on. I won't be covered for just a month; I will be covered for a lifetime. And for the first time in my life...


I am rich.