Do you ever feel like a magnet for insane people?
As you know from my other posts, I often do. Maybe they see some of themselves in me. Frightening thought.
Anyway. Yesterday I was out running errands (searching high and low for cheap Halloween candy to feed the ravenous throngs that swarm my door each year) and just as I was pulling out of the plaza’s parking lot, a large figure came toddling towards me.
Reminded me of my 21-month-old son when he was just learning to walk. Except he might have been steadier on his feet than this object.
As she neared – well, first off I could see “it” was in fact a “she” – I could spot a stubby arm poking angrily out of a tattered Cosby sweater urgently waving a dirty meat claw at me in an effort to flag me down.
I thought for sure there might be some sort of emergency. Something big is going down. She may need my help. Call 911. Something.
I pulled up closer to her and rolled down the window asking if she was OK. Her hippopotamus jaws snapped open, her aggressively gaping teeth holes leered at me and she began to pump hot stank breath into my passenger side window.
Got iny spar shange?
Uhh, you’re kidding me right now, right? You just ran head-on at my moving car with your high-alert jazz hands in full shake and you want spare change? I thought this was a serious emergency. No one’s after you? No demented ex-boyfriend? No Freddie Krueger? No zombies?
Come ON. It’s Halloween, let’s have a good scare! (This is where I start to question whether or not I should be participating in what my husband and I call Shocktober, where we watch as many horror movies as we can in this month.)
Nope. Just begging.
Not to be insensitive (which means, spoiler alert, I’m about to be insensitive) but get a sign and pop a squat on the street corner like the rest of them, lady. Isn’t it part of The Homeless Street Code (a book handed out at orientation I believe) that you must never aggressively approach a car signaling you’re a damsel in distress when the only demon after you is your own hankering for some McDonald’s? Or crack?
I mean, I’m all for helping the homeless in other ways, like volunteering my time at the soup kitchen downtown (which, if I’m being honest, I haven’t done since Kellan was born. Tsk tsk, I know. In my defense, being a stay-at-home, work-at-home mom IS my philanthropy. Caring for this psycho of a child. Especially now that we’re nearing the twos. Good gawd, send in backup.)
So, needless to say I didn’t hand out any spare change as I had just forked it all over to the cashier in exchange for bags of “fun” rip-off size candy.
Maybe I should have offered her a piece of candy but I thought even a homeless person would be insulted by the size of it. Not enough nourishment, forget it. Barely even taste it before it’s gone. I’d rather scoop up a bite of seagull poop in the parking lot. OK, I doubt anyone would utter that last phrase, but maybe.