Giving No Quarter When Panhandler Asks For Some Change, He Gets A Handout Of Free Advice Instead

I saw him the minute I pulled up to the burger stand. He was hard to miss on a day when most of his peers were either in school or working. A kid about my own son’s age … maybe l7?

He was huddled on the picnic table in full view of customers who pulled up. His winter coat was pulled tight across his shoulders. I thought of my own sons and my heart ached.

Through the tinted glass of my car I watched another middle-aged woman (probably a mother like myself) hand him a bill.

Waiting for my order, I thought about this anonymous young man. How did he wind up on a picnic bench when kids are supposed to be in classrooms, growing like potted plants in a greenhouse, waiting for their time to bloom?

Visions of my son in college nearly had me crying. My firstborn; could I picture him on that bench? Such a contrast. A boy who worked every summer to buy himself a pickup truck. “I wanna do it myself, Mom,” he’d say, just as he had when he was a tot. A shiny Dodge Cummins now carries him to campus.

Dreams, goals, and passions fuel my son’s travels as he declares his major and piles on the courses. Did the person on the picnic bench have dreams, goals, passions? What made this young man different from my son?

And just as importantly, how did I feel about him? How could I help him?

My burger arrived, and the only route back to my car was past the young man. “Lady, can you spare me some change for a burger?” he asked. Maternal instincts well-honed by rearing four teenagers flooded me. I walked up to him.

“Why aren’t you in school?” I smiled.

He mumbled something about it being boring. I dove deeper.

“Where do you live?” I queried, smiling again. Another mumbled response about living with friends on the East Side.

“And your mom? What’s the story on her?” He fidgeted on the bench. The questions were not what he’d bargained for when he’d asked a stranger for some change.

“We get along better if we don’t live together,” he said.

“And your dad? What does he do?”

“He’s a contractor, back east.”

“But you DO live in a house? With friends?” I searched his face for the truth. Yup……the truth.

“So, what’s your name, son?” I asked gently.

“Forrest,” he said. With two “r”s. The kind of spelling one gives a child destined to become a lawyer, a doctor, a success. Someone had nurtured hopes for this child.

“That’s a great name,” I assured him.

“I know,” he replied with a flicker of a smile, his only one.

“So, Forrest,” I steeled myself with motherliness,”if you’re not going to school, why aren’t you working?”

And then it came out. The difference. The difference that made young men like Forrest sit on picnic benches in the dead of winter asking for handouts.

” ‘Cause I’m lazy.” His dark eyes drilled through me. Being a mother of four teenagers gives you a Ph.D in handling conversations like this. I was no longer confused about what he needed.

“Forrest, I doubt that. I know the owner of this drive-in. He works right over there in that office,” I said, pointing across the parking lot. “If you want, I’ll walk over there with you and I’ll bet you money, he’ll give you a job.”

“No thanks,” he said, shrugging. “I can make more than minimum wage just sitting here.”

Ah haaaaa, I sighed to myself. Now Forrest was teaching me a little something.

“Well, Forrest, I’m going to give you something,” I said. He perked up.

“Ever read the Bible?” I asked.

“I love the Lord,” he replied. Whether his enthusiasm was real or canned, I’ve yet to decide. But at least he was finally boxed into the corner I wanted him in.

“Ever read the part about ‘He who doesn’t work, shall not eat?’ ” I quizzed.

The shock that registered on his face was way louder than his barely audible “no.”

Without allowing him to regain his composure, I continued. “There’s also a part in that book that talks about a beggar who couldn’t walk. He’d sit by the gate all day long and ask for money. The disciples came by and he hit them up. Know what they told him?”

“Uh, nooooooo,” he said.

“They told him he was healed. And to get up and walk,” I said. Forrest still didn’t quite get it.

“So, Forrest, because I ALSO care about you, I’m telling you the same thing. Get off your rear end and walk, son,” I chided him as gently as my own.

“Go back to school, get a job, do something with yourself, Forrest,” I translated.

“And also because I care about you …” I tenderly explained, “I will not make this begging stuff easier for you by giving you money. I’ll be praying for you, Forrest, every day,” I promised.

I heard his “thank you” as I headed toward my car.

And I’ll be praying too that no one else makes begging easy for you, either, I said to myself as I drove away. In my rear view mirror, I saw him still sitting on that picnic bench.

(Forrest’s name has been changed to protect his identity.)

Ronna Snyder is a Spokane freelance writer, equine broker/agent and appraiser.)