Lloyd has HIV. At least I think that’s what he told my girlfriend. She’s known him a lot longer than I have. It still seems strange to me when he knocks on our door and asks for help. I do an awful job of hiding my grimace when I look out and see that he has swept the sidewalk in front of our house and yet I’m unwilling to give him anything. I am ashamed when I find myself wishing that he would just go away. I tell myself that it’s alright not to like aggressive panhandlers. I struggle to understand the relationships formed before I moved in here. Why does she find it acceptable that he knock here?
I look in Lloyd’s eyes and I see a kind man, if a desperate man. He is courteous and always smiling. He brings us odds and ends that he has fished out of the garbage somewhere. There is a sense of fairness in that he wants to give something in return for help received. And at the very least we’ve made some use of the mini-vacuum he found. And I certainly didn’t begrudge him the pair of winter gloves I rarely ever used. He usually asks for $10 so he can get into some shelter, but I know there are free shelters all over the city. I don’t know what’s up with this $10. I’d rather just give him food, and I often do. There’s almost always some granola bars or bottles of water I can hand over if nothing else, so I kick myself when I bristle at his voice through the front door, “It’s me, Doc. Can you help me out today?”
My mother had flown out for a visit on one occasion that Lloyd stopped by. She was aghast that I had so easily made a handout to some random bum off the street. And I couldn’t explain that that’s not what it’s really like. I mean, I have given a dollar here and there while walking the streets. But it’s usually only to new faces. Why am I enabling this man? Is it his disease? His race? Why doesn’t he work, does he have a mental deficiency of some kind? I don’t know, Mom, I don’t know. I don’t understand compassion. I don’t know how it’s supposed to work. I don’t have anything, really, but that have-vs.-have-not dichotomy is very relative. It’s a huge spectrum. And I don’t know what the social rules are here, whether I’m living by them or breaking them. And beyond that, what is spiritually righteous here, or good karma? All I know is that I don’t like this cognitive dissonance. It’s not that I don’t want this man knocking on my door; I just don’t want to be troubled by it.
I don’t know what to do with Lloyd. I think I would like him under any other circumstances, but he frustrates me. He makes me look at myself. At my finances. He plays with that cord that connects my senses of charity and guilt. I’m young and pretty uncommitted (lazy): I can live fairly comfortably without working full time, hour-wise. I don’t really have a family or anyone to support other than myself. For the time being, I am complacent in my bullshit little bohemian existence. I don’t feel obligated to earn more, as nice as that would be. And the problem I see is that I don’t want to feel like I should earn more just so I can give it away. And yet when I hear that knock on the door and see Lloyd’s head bobbing outside the front windows, what is it that I feel? I should do more. I should have more money so I can dutifully give this homeless guy a ten, a smile, and a pat on the back. I should help my girlfriend through nursing school. I should fix up this house, pay her car insurance. I should comb my hair and put on a clean shirt. I should update my résumé and look for more work. I should quick slacking and apply to grad school already. I should grow the fuck up and quit complaining. Maybe if I had a 401(k) and health insurance, if I owned a suit that I didn’t get from goodwill, if I owned a Beemer and lived in the suburbs, if I replaced my student loan debt with a mortgage or two, maybe then I’d feel proper compassion for this strange man who stands on my stoop and begs for money. Or maybe I’d tell him to get lost, to get a job, and get out of my face without feeling like a complete scumbag. Maybe. I don’t really know.
I don’t mean to be whiny or appear like some class warrior or something. I don’t want to feel bad about this. I don’t want to feel bad about feeling bad. What I do want is to know how to tell a man who may not understand what I mean that just because I live in a house doesn’t mean I have my shit together any more than he does … without lying to him. And I fear that’s impossible.
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