RCS – Business Default

In the city I often meet bums and – bums. Every time I enter the garage under the block of flats, where my car rests, I meet someone at the entrance. And when I get off, just like that. They usually stand still and ask for money. When I really don’t have change, it’s hard for me to pass. I can not. I have a bad conscience.

That’s why I’ve gotten into the habit of putting coins in my fist at home. Sometimes I speak a sentence or two with the bums. It is especially bad in winter. And on holidays. Their views draw thin lines between us. I’m not going to get into a verbal fire, saying, why don’t they go to work like everyone else, even if it’s to sweep the streets; or: everyone is lazy, alcoholic, drug addict; or: surely they earn more by begging than if they worked on minimum wage and similar oslararies of narrow minded black and white thoughts. I do not know what paths they traveled and what dragons they fought. But just as people differ from each other in all categories of groups, labels, nationalities, professions and cultures, there are endless differences between bums too. But I don’t believe any of them WANTS to be.

But. BUT! Somewhere there is a line beyond which even the saddest stories no longer move me. This limit is called respect. I you, you me. Regardless of the drawer you live in. And regardless of the moment in which you live. About a year ago, I was met on the street by a bum who stopped me with the suffering face of Saint Mary and asked me for some change. “Whatever, ma’am. I haven’t eaten for three days. Anything,” he said as I rummaged through my bag, which I can never find anything fast enough in anyway. Finally I find the wallet and in it a coin for one euro and a bill for fifty. I give him a coin, one euro that is, and I want to move on. The bum stands in front of me, looks at me pointedly and says: “Just one euro? You don’t have any more, do you?” “No, unfortunately I don’t have change anymore,” I regretfully reply. “I’m only in my fifties. Shall we go to the store near here together to get a sandwich?” He didn’t like that. “So pi…do you care…what will one euro be for me, crazy old lady!” he screamed. I was stunned by the surprise. His face instantly changed from Saint Mary to the Devil. “Bitch, go to the c…ac!!! Die!” he shouted. He kept walking down the street, swearing at me with a dictionary of swear words, and I watched him for a long time. He didn’t look back. After 30 meters, he stopped the gentleman coming towards him, and his face again put on the mask of the suffering martyr from the apocalypse movies.

I will meet him again in a month or so. The story repeats itself: “Ma’am, I haven’t eaten for three days, can you give me some change?” He didn’t remember me. For a moment I thought about whether I should reach for my wallet, then I looked into his eyes and answered: “You – no. And I’ll tell you why. Last time I gave you a euro and you cursed me because it wasn’t enough for you.” He didn’t want to listen. He stormed past and cursed me again with even more delicious curses. Okay, I could do it differently. Could. I don’t know how much trouble he’s in that his nerves have taken such a toll on his mind. And “tooth for tooth” is not part of me. But I never turn the other cheek to someone who slaps me. I either turn and walk away or explain my decisions if I think the person will understand them.

There were several such encounters with the Phantom of the Opera. I always answered similarly, but only in passing. A week ago, he stood up again on the street, attached the mask of the sufferer to “him” and asked for money. I couldn’t get past him quickly and told him that sentence very calmly again. The sufferer’s mask instantly went off. This time it wasn’t enough to curse me. He put his face in front of mine so I could feel his breath, and started screaming angrily at me: “I’ll kill you, kill you!!! I will cut your head off, you bitch, your head!!!” and added a garland of bloody curses, repeating the threat several times. I didn’t back down. I didn’t hang my head. Our noses almost touched. Drops of his drool flew onto my cheeks from the scream. I just stood motionless and silently looked into his eyes with determination and waited for him to fall for me.

It didn’t fall. After about a minute of shouting, people gathered around us and calmed him down. At one point he turned and hurried away. “Are you all right, madam?” a boy asked me. “I am, thank you.” I wasn’t okay. Not for a while yet. I didn’t care. But I wouldn’t do anything differently today. He crossed the line a lot. I don’t know the reasons. But even if they may be weighty, my sympathy for him has completely dulled. Let’s face it – there was no need for him to lick himself or humiliate himself in any other way, really not. Pouring out all your rage on a fellow human being is not either. When I meet bums, I often feel ashamed. Shame because as a society we have failed all kinds of tests. Mainly because of arrogance, greed, gluttony, envy, stinginess and sick inflated egos. The possibilities for make-up exams are not endless.