From the Editor's Desk

The corner of North Clark and Division Street in Chicago is a veritable homeless man's convention pretty much 24 x 7. You'll find an El station and a bus stop there, and with a Dunkin' Donuts, Subway sub shop, and Popeye's Chicken anchoring the local economy, the corner is flush with self-involved yuppies toting disposable jingle.

I know this because I've spent short- and long-term visits to this little Midwest microcosm at all hours of the day, in all states of sobriety. And whether I like it or not, I'm one of those self-involved yuppies.

The Dunkins (as a New Englander is apt to call it) provides a counter space for you to stand at and eat while you're looking out the window at the corner. I am standing at this counter finishing off a Boston Cream when the guy comes in and pulls up a slab of space about 8 inches to my left. His Blackhawks jacket has seen better days - white liner exposed through holes in the black outer shell - and he's got that unmistakable fetid scent that only serious street living can provide. He is standing right off my shoulder like a marathoner drafting off the lead pack, and he's staring square at the side of my face as I reach into the D&D bag for my sausage-and-egg croissant.

The homeless can bring out of you reflex actions that no other demographic can extract. My first reaction is to give a quick head turn to assess the guy, with a quick return to center before I have to make eye contact. He responds to this acknowledgement with an outburst in the undecipherable dialect of the disaffected. I begin the interminable wait for him to disappear and take the croissant from its wrapper.

"Nice day for you? nice day for you, nice for ya," he says to the side of my face with a thick-sounding tongue, but at least it's a run-on sentence I can understand. Of course I don't acknowledge that I understand this, and because it's raining I don't really agree with him anyway.

In three bites, I'm about one-fourth done with the croissant. It's pretty friggin' hot -- burning my mouth inside -- so eating it fast and exiting from this awkward, one-way intercourse isn't an option. I continue to stare out the plate glass window and wish this whole scene away.

"That's a nice sandwich. Huh? Right? That's a nice sandwich?"

Now he's asking me a question that's kinda hard to ignore. I turn and face him.

"What's. up.?" I ask in a drawn-out, steady monotone that in no way implies that I care what's up but may imply that I'm likely to beat him senseless just for existing. He is half my size and not a paragon of physical fitness.

With a soft breath he mumbles another undecipherable sentence with the word 'sandwich' in it, and for the first time since he walked in he turns away from me. It's an unnatural twist, his turning away. His feet are still planted facing me, and he turns at the waist, twisting his torso to face the window and his head completely to his left. I force down a couple more bites of the croissant.

For a minute or two we're locked in this non-event. I eat a little more, and he doesn't move. When he finally does, it is a slow, deliberate glance toward the D&D bag on the counter. He rises to tip toes, cocks his head and tries to peek inside the sack to see what else is there. (It's empty.) I am trying to monitor this from my peripheral vision, but I am forced to turn ever so slightly to focus, and he detects this movement and just as subtly tries to turn away without being noticed.

It's at about this point that I reach a moral crossroads. I really don't want any more of this sandwich. It has nothing to do with my breakfast companion -- it takes a lot for me to lose an appetite -- but the Boston Cream was a superfluous appetizer, and I'm really just too full to finish off the croissant. I have a handful of choices:

I know this man is hungry. I know he wants what I'm eating. But somehow I can't muster the nerve to reach over and give this guy my food that's so clearly marked with my bite pattern. To start, it seems condescending and demeaning. And it violates what city mouthpieces everywhere will say: "Offering food or money to the homeless reinforces negative behavior and discourages them from attending appropriate venues like soup kitchens and shelters." And maybe the real truth is I just don't have the compassion. I don't know.

I do know that tossing the sandwich is not an option. The cruelty in it is palpable. There's no way I can crumple the still-hot food up in the paper sack and sky-hook it into the trash barrel across the room while this guy watches it go.

My companion seems to detect my indecisiveness. He turns to face me again, his eyes searching my face for a sign that he might get fed.

I turn back to the counter and look at the croissant. In four more uncomfortable bites, I finish it off. The source of the conflict is gone. The homeless guy is looking at me, completely expressionless.

"See ya, man," I say.

He takes one more look in the empty D&D bag before I grab it and ball it up.

A little less than one month ago, the city of Chicago passed an ordinance to crackdown on "aggressive" panhandling. Violators will be fined $50. I've seen a lot of poor public policy in my career, but this is almost nonsensical. How does the city patrol the panhandling, and how the hell is a guy without 50 cents for coffee gonna front a $50 fine?

This ordinance passed because most people feel the way I feel as I walk out of that Dunkin Donuts: relieved to turn my back on an awkward situation. It's how I feel, and much as I'd like to, I can't deny it. But I think it's fair to say that I fucked up: I should've given that guy my leftovers, and I shouldn't have thought twice.

Maybe I'll get it right next time. But maybe not. Reflexes are hard to control.

R A Miller

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