Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

Riding the 'L'

The black man on the train
entered our car and in a very loud voice
asked for money.
Twenty-three dollars for a seven-day bus pass
so he could have transportation to go look for work.
He said he didn’t drink or do drugs and didn’t want to stand
on the corner begging for money.
He said he wanted to be a social worker
and he had resumes with him too.
When he was through with his speech,
everyone on the train sat with their heads down,
glancing at one another uncomfortably.
Nobody did anything.
Then, some touristy-looking white guy in the back handed him a dollar.
When he passed by me,
I didn’t give him anything.
I was pissed off.
I hated that he made his speech.
I didn’t want to hear it.
I didn’t ask to hear it.
I didn’t get on the train so I’d have to listen to his story.
I just wanted to make it back to my apartment
with my tofu noodle soup before it all leaked out.
Now, besides trying to get home,
I had to feel guilty.
I know he goes from car to car giving the exact same speech.
And I know someone on each car is giving him something.
Otherwise, he’d quit asking.
But what makes me so mad,
is that I don’t know what to believe.
Maybe he really is who he claims he is.
But maybe he isn’t.
Everyday, I pass by the same homeless people on the streets of Chicago.
Each one seems as bad off as the next.
And I want to help them all,
but I don’t know if the money I give would be going to drugs or cigarettes,
or if they own a house in some nice suburb
and they do this on the side rather than work some crappy job.
And that’s what makes me feel so bad -
I can’t trust them.
I want to do the right thing.
But I’m not sure what the right thing is.
I wish I had asked the man on the train to show me the inside of his pockets.
What if he already had twenty-three dollars in his pockets?
What if he had two hundred?
Then what?
Then he’d be a liar.
And I wouldn’t have to feel bad.
But I didn’t ask him anything.
Neither did anyone else.
Seems to me, if someone is going to make an announcement and claim all these things,
we should have the right to ask some questions.
But instead, we all just sat there with our heads down,
feeling guilty and annoyed and mainly guilty.
When the train stopped the black man made his way
through the emergency door
to the next car
and began his speech again.
Three gay looking guys sitting near me
laughed and snickered about him
and about how hard life was
and about the manicures
they were going to go get.
They were so mean-spirited about everyone and everything
that they annoyed me
much more than the poor black man.
At least he was sincere.
I stared at them, wishing
they would get off the train.
They did.
Three more stops to go.
I felt my soup slosh in its plastic container.
Next time, I’m taking the express bus.