What is this viscous wound, this mordant scar, discolored and itching and flaking, leaving fibrous residue like diseased dander on the exquisitely coifed tapestry of society? Bums. Hobos. Vagrants. Eugene used to be known as Track Town USA. Now it’s better known as Vagrantsville or Bum City or Hobo Junction; downtown is overrun nightly by besotted winos, hungry for their next fix of Mad Dog 20/20; street kids roam the downtown mall, trailed by their older, scruffier bum mentors. “Hey, you have any money?” is their mantra.
Homelessness is a problem, but not all homeless people are panhandlers. Homeless people seek services and attempt to find jobs. Due to some terrible series of events in their lives, they’ve ended up on the streets. Bums, however, are the junkies who drain society, who expect something for nothing. There is a serious societal problem here. But it’s hard for me to care anymore. On a nightly basis, panhandlers accost me. I should be used to it by now. My olfactory senses should be on heightened alert, like Spider Man’s “spidey senses.” Alas, I am living proof that it takes more than five years for a species to adapt to its surroundings. These panhandlers, who are ninja-like with their stealth, always ask me for money, and I have traditionally said no. It was my policy.
When I told my bum-apologist friends about my policy, I would usually receive a stern lecture about the need to help the less fortunate. That always seemed like a very charitable, Christian notion. But I don’t give to charity, and I’m not a Christian. Nonetheless, the logic behind this sentiment seemed to come from the right place. Shouldn’t we help the less fortunate? Frankly, I don’t know and I don’t care. But at this point, after living in Eugene for many years, I’ve given up on my “no handouts” policy. I henceforth acquiesce to the panhandlers’ demands. I’m sick of people in Eugene making me feel like a Republican.
Thus, my new policy is to give to every bum I see, and this should be your policy too (you’re not a money-grubbing, misanthropic, bum-hating Republican, are you?). I won’t discriminate. You can look like Chewbacca after an all-night meth-fueled bender, and I won’t care. Hell, you’re just living the dream, hombre. If you have a humorous sign reading: “Looking for cash, ass or grass, anything will do,” I will certainly give you some of my precious money, though I will leave your entreaty for ass and grass unfulfilled. I won’t give you much money, but I will give you just enough to buy that next 40-oz. to steel your reserve.
Bums, tweakers, street kids and panhandlers may represent a societal wound, and one may argue that handing them wads of cash from our car windows is like applying a soothing layer of ointment, not seeing a doctor, ignoring that gangrenous smell, and simply hoping that the topical, surface level treatment doesn’t exacerbate the infection. But I don’t care anymore. The bums have won; the bums will always win in Eugene. My advice to you, dear reader, is to cow to their demands. There may very well be more of them than of you.
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