I’ve been in San Francisco for two days now, and in my infinite wisdom, I’m going to go on record as saying that there is a homeless problem here.
One of the things I hated about working in downtown Detroit, was being accosted by five homeless people a day. In San Francisco, I get that in the time it takes me to have a cigarette outside my hotel.
The “in” that the homeless people here use (if you haven’t figured it out already) is “Hey, can I buy a cigarette from you?” which, admittedly, is nicer than the “Hey, big guy!” I’ve come to know and love in Detroit.
Initially, I didn’t think too much of it. Smoking cigarettes in San Francisco seems to engender a slightly less irritated reaction from the natives than dropping trow and relieving yourself on the sidewalk. So it didn’t surprise me that there were probably a few closeted smokers around.
But alas, I was on to their ploy. Ask your mark if you can buy a cigarette, and if they say you can just have one, they’re obviously wealthy beyond comprehension, and would love nothing more than for you to tell them your life story, such that they will all but beg you to take some of the cash that’s weighing down their platinum-lined pockets.
I’ve come to keep an eye out for it now, and I just squeezed by what was perhaps one of the more surreal encounters I’ve had.
Across the street, a man in a wheelchair was going up a hill. Normally, this would make me feel bad for the person in question, but he was going up backwards and pushing himself up the hill with his legs. Traffic thinned, and I could tell that the soft amber glow in my hand had attracted him like a moth to a spotlight.
Realizing what was about to happen, I put out my cigarette, and immediately heard that magic saying… “Hey! Can I buy a cigarette from you?” echoed from across the street.
I proceeded to the hotel.
“HEY! CAN I BUY A CIGARETTE FROM YOU?” the man screeched from the middle of the road.
The doorman shooed him away, and I’m contemplating whether or not it’s morally wrong to tip the doorman exponentially more money than the value of the cigarette the homeless man wanted.
Earlier, I had a Coke bottle tossed at me. I’d like to think it contained Coke, but it could have been another liquid. Fortunately, the homeless have notoriously bad aim. In any case, it would seem that ignoring their demands for change when your pockets are literally jingling, tends to incite some hard feelings.
