Spare Change
“Can you spare some change?” she asked.
I turned. The woman before me had long, dark
hair. She was wearing a thin, brown coat that moved slightly
in the chill wind. Her gray-hazel eyes peered into my own,
not blinking, as if in the stare she could somehow fill my
eyes with her concern.
But I had questions. Many questions. I wondered
if this woman was legit. If she did this for a living. If
she made more money in a day than I did in my honest to goodness
employment in one month. But mostly, I wondered if it really
mattered.
I had accepted money before, so why couldn’t
she?
I sat my bundle, a twelve-pack of tissue, and
a gallon of milk, on the trunk of my car and thought about
the spare change I had in my purse; a $5 dollar bill from
my sister and three bucks from a fellow college student.
I’d taken my sister out to lunch at a chic
Chinese restaurant for her birthday. She’d brought along
her 4-year-old daughter, a cute and inquisitive mite who wanted
to be part of the conversation no matter where it took us.
The other three bucks had come from some stamps I’d sold.
The student-friend had paid me triple what the stamps were
worth. She’d made it a point to come over to my desk
with all sorts of thank-yous and smiles for saving her life.
I opened my purse and took out my wallet, an
old black thing that barely fit all my credit cards and pictures
of my grandchildren. Opening the change section, I quickly
surveyed that the three ones were wrapped around the five.
This would be a difficult move. I had to use a sort of push
down, crumple, and take out method so that I’d still
be able to get to the ones without revealing the five.
Two things you need to know about me. First,
I am the greatest penny pincher on the planet. Just give me
a penny and I’ll find a way to use it up to a full week.
Second, I know what the government does in the form of food
stamps for those who can’t afford to buy food. I also
know what The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints
does for its members tight on money—I know because I’ve
used both services at various times in my life. Still, my
mother was the only one who had a way of giving me small amounts
of money without making me feeling guilty.
It was always, “Here, this is for you.”
And then she’d place the $20 bill in my hand and say,
“If you need anything, you go get it.”
But I didn’t know this woman like I knew
my mother, besides the fact that the roles were reversed this
time. While I’d asked for money occasionally, I didn’t
know if this woman was on the up and up. Did she come here
often to get the money she needed for herself and her children?
Did she always stand in the parking lot between the glowing
cars, in the same brown coat, waiting for just the right person?
Today I wasn’t downtown where I’d
been told all the panhandlers stood. I wasn’t
by the busy freeway on fifth south or near Temple Square where
the men and women (usually men) without means stood with their
sign written in pen or marker on a torn piece of cardboard,
watching, hoping for comfort, as the men and women in sparkling
suit, tie and dress walked by. I was in the Smith’s parking
lot, in the process of finding my keys and putting away my
groceries when she walked up.
I handed her the three dollars. “God bless
you,” she said.
I was suddenly curious as I opened car, put
my groceries in the back seat, and got in. After starting
the engine, I looked out the rearview mirror to see where
the woman had gone. It would be just my luck to see her laughing
as she got inside her new blue Chevy, only to drive to some
other parking lot, where some other sucker with change was
standing ready to put groceries into her car. But she didn’t
do that. She walked in the direction of the busy street.
Funny thing is I couldn’t look any longer.
Suddenly, I felt as if I was spying on
someone’s private life—as if somehow I needed proof
that the money I had given
her would go to some real use other than alcohol. But I never
found out. I drove off
and didn’t look back.
I couldn’t help being reminded of all the
pan handlers I‘d heard about who traveled the world making
more money in a day than I did in a month. I remembered the
schemes of making oneself look dirty, of wearing old clothes
and presenting oneself as a father or mother in need of money
to feed a child. I’d heard all the stories about the
lazy people who didn’t want to work and so traveled on
trains for adventure, picking others pockets because they
couldn’t lift a finger for themselves. I thought about
all of this as I sat in my cozy condo with running water,
working heat, and food.
Even as I type this I am thinking about all
of the money that has been given to me
from strangers as well as loved ones when I needed it. The
Church didn’t come by and check what was in my cupboards
before they wrote out my food order. They government didn’t
turn up their noses when I asked for help in paying my heating
bill. My mother didn’t tell me to get a job and to stop
being a slacker. The money was given. Freely. No questions
asked. Nothing held back.
Nothing.
I can’t help wondering about that.
