I saw a man begging for bus fare today as I waited my turn to board the 15 line out of Liverpool city center. My earbuds were in my ears. I commonly wear my earbuds in public but they’re not playing anything, they’re silent so I can hear everything around me, they’re just quietly resting in my ears. It’s a line of defense I use regularly to detour prying strangers and unwanted attention in

public.

There was about 10 people ahead of me in line, each waiting to board public transportation. Everyone is required to either pay the fare up front directly to the bus operator or scan their QR code from either a recent transaction or their phone—I was waiting to scan my phone. A dude was in really bad shape, pretty young, I think he was still early 30’s, hopping on and off the bus, pleading with the driver and anyone who would listen:

“Please can I have a ride? Please just give me a ride mate. Do you have any change mate? Can you please spare some change please for a bus ticket please?”

But he was in really bad shape. Not just a rough day—a rough go at #life. He looked like he hadn’t had a shower in months, missing all of his teeth, sores all over his face, he was in really bad shape.

“Please can you spare any change please? I’m not going far, I just need a ride please, any change at all, can you spare any change for fare please?”

He must’ve said “please” 50 times. I could tell he was in a near panic and really wanted to get where he was going. The bus driver refused him a seat, the people around me didn’t just deny him change, they were saying things I was embarrassed hearing, I couldn’t believe it. Just the older men, though, the younger crowd (most wearing earbuds) reserved their judgments. You should’ve heard some of the things those old men were saying. They were quite a bit older than me, like 70 or maybe even 80 years old probably if not older.

“Get a job ya F’in bum!” Yells one old man from behind me as he held his hand to the side of his mouth to get the echoing effect but he didn’t say “F’in” and, from another it’s, “wash your hair you filthy pig!” Now I’m hearing these old men shout from about four different locations in line and they’re all shouting something different:

“Get outta here ya lousy bum!” “Do something useful and die!” Yeah, I heard one guy tell him to die, “do something useful and die,” he said. I turned around to see where it came from and could tell he meant it. I didn’t have much change on me. I had £1 and 50 pence which isn’t quite $2.00 USD—about half the fare he needed for a seat but it’s all the change I had. It was in my hand as I stepped on the bus, I’m the only person I saw hand the guy change that day and, when I did, I caught backlash from the old man who was directly behind me, “don’t throw your hard earned money away on drugs” is what he said to me.

“Mind your own business please, thank you,” I said. “Don’t concern yourself with me, sir—God bless you, have a nice day” and proceeded to give the guy the change in my pocket. He took my change. I extended my hand to shake his but he wouldn’t shake my hand and, without any hesitation, he’s all in my personal space now and won’t let up.

“Gimme another pound please, c’mon just one more, gimme two pounds. I want two, just one more c’mon, just gimme two pounds. I know you got another one.”

Now he’s holding me up which is holding up the line of people behind me, each of whom are already noticeably perturbed I contributed to this guy—I can feel them glaring at the back of my head. “Just say thank you,” I told him. He wouldn’t leave me alone. “Just say thank you,” again, I said to him. He wouldn’t let up, “one more pound please, gimme two pounds.” I told him “just say thank you when someone gives you money” but it was as though he couldn’t hear me and could only hear himself. “God bless you” and walked passed the guy, scanned my phone with the bus driver and took a seat—he never stopped asking me for more pounds.

I never saw him get on the bus. I assume nobody else contributed to his “drugs” and the bus driver had already repeatedly voiced his concerns—he’s not going to find a seat without full fare. Maybe he’ll score enough change to catch the next bus out of center.

Where he’s going, I don’t know. How he got to where he’s at, I can only imagine. People get sick—there’s many culprits, sure, but sometimes people are just sick. I don’t know what happens or what did happen or how these individuals are chosen but, more often than not, it just seems like one of the bajillion wires in the brain responsible for firing signals back and forth never got terminated properly—who knows? Something like that.

Back when I first started on this platform, I did an experiment called Striking Up A Conversation. It’s the one where I found money in a crosswalk, made change, and gave it to people around me who just seemed like they could use it. During that experiment, I consistently met people with mangled hands, most were definitely that way since birth. Several had mental issues, too, I was prepared for that. I was prepared to meet some crackheads, too, but I bet more than half, between 60-70%, had disfigured or mangled hands. They were either missing fingers, thumbs, had a crippling disease or worse, I didn’t expect that—just like I didn’t expect a group of senior citizens to act that way.

I give change when I can, when it’s not a spectacle—50 cents on the street is like a $5.00 Upvote here on Steemit, maybe $4.00 in today’s market. What I have was given to me anyway. Buskers always have first crack at it, I don’t even care if I don’t like the music—if you’re playing on the street and I have some change, keep the change! Most recently I began offering my Steemit address to them, what I do is, I offer them a screen shot of my homepage—who knows? Maybe I’ll hear from them one of these days. Buskers are cool. Sick people are probably cool, too, or at least maybe they used to be, they’re just sick. Disfigured people are still cool, they’re just blessed differently than you are.

But out of all of the mangled hands I didn’t shake and all of the crossed wires I can’t communicate with—add to that an irate stranger here and there and the ones who won’t say anything at all, one sickness stands out. It’s not the guy who wouldn’t leave me alone about another pound or the people who ignore panhandlers, not the people I pissed off in line behind me either. It was those old, grey haired men who wouldn’t stop yelling obscenities at a complete stranger who was obviously in distress, I’m not sure what that was about. If anyone was in urgent need of medical attention that day I think it might’ve been them.

Monday