LJ Idol Minor+ - Prompt 5
Nov. 28th, 2021 08:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hangedkay(Prompt 5 - "Thanks for Giving")
No Small Thanks
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what? All I said was thank you.”
“Don’t say those words.”
I stare at my sister in confusion. What she is saying goes against everything I have been taught. Be kind. Be respectful. Show thanks when someone does something for you. And what could be more worthy of a ‘thank you’ than giving money to someone in need?
“They don’t deserve your thanks. Save it for someone who has done something significant for you.”
I look down at the coins in my cup. To me, each one of them feels significant. Together, they mean the possibility of food, drink, and maybe if I’m lucky, a new pair of socks. I unconsciously wiggle my big toe in its stringy hole as this thought comes to me. It has been weeks since my left sock caught on my toenail and started to slowly shred apart. At least it’s still only October. Winters here are rough.
I look back at Caryn, and she must be able to read the confusion on my face. She growls a little, then turns to face me straight on. Her eyes are cold and are, if not mean, at least callous.
“That man just walked by with a seven-dollar tiny cup of coffee, and dropped what couldn’t be more than twenty cents in your cup. He just spent what could pay for two days’ worth of food on some burnt sugar water and gave you too little coin to even by some mints. He doesn’t deserve your thanks. He doesn’t even deserve your recognition. He’s just trying to make himself feel better about having enough money to throw it away. He doesn’t care if he is actually helping you. It’s a purely self-centered act.”
She faces to the side and spits on the ground, then stands up and turns her back on me, leaving me staring at the ragged jacket wrapped around her waist. When Caryn stands up, she is nearly six feet tall, and towers over me. We aren’t actually related, but she is the closest thing I have to family in the world. We met almost a year ago, right here in the city, when she saved me from a police crackdown (and my own stupidity). She took me under her wing like I was her own flesh-and-blood brother, Lord knows why. I owe her everything (or so she would say). But I can’t understand the pure hatred she holds for the Homers.
Those of us who are homeless have lots of slang terms for those who are not like us: Frogs (they have ‘pads’), Diggers (they have ‘digs’), Babies (they have a ‘crib’). You get the idea. Caryn always calls them ‘Homers’ and I guess she transferred that one to me. It’s really just a weak attempt to put down people who are better off than us, a sort of inverse snobbery. If we were honest with each other, most of us would love to be Homers.
Instead, we spend most of our time out here in front of cafes and coffee shops, on benches and doorways, hoping to catch enough spare change to survive, and hiding from the cops and the gangs and the thieves. The first two both are trying to remove is in very different ways. The latter, well, actually, I’ve made friends with a lot of the thieves, so they don’t bother me too much. But they have a history with Caryn, so when they find us together it can get awkward. It isn’t as if we have much for them to take, but what we do have is oh so precious to us. And they know it. I learned fast how to store my goods and to carry just enough to make them think they had stripped me clean.
“5-0 on your six.” By the time I react and start to look up to respond, Caryn has already taken several long strides across the street. Too late for me to run, I quickly snap a lid with a straw through it onto my collection cup and pull a local map out of my pocket. As I squint at the multitude of street names, I resemble a dozen other tourists wandering nearby. Just another lost out-of-towner sipping on a pricy drink. The cops pass by without even looking my way.
Not far enough away, Caryn isn’t so lucky. As she approaches the far side of the street, a taxi swerves around a slow pickup truck and nearly runs her over. The blast of a horn, the squealing of brakes, and the ensuing screams of obscenities attract the cops’ attention. A few minutes later, Caryn is in the back of a squad car on her way to what I hope will be a short but likely painful adventure through the penal system. She is well known and wanted, and not just by the cops.
I am frozen in place, unsure what to do, my hand tapping nervously on my map. It isn’t as though this hasn’t happened before. I spent most of April completely alone as she worked her way through a drunk and disorderly. But my initial lack of direction has me rooted in place.
“You look lost, son. Can I help you?” A local businessman, but thankfully not one I recognize. Of course, none of them ever recognize me. I fiddle with my map a little more and chew on my straw. On my own now, time to make a choice.
“Uh, the subway. I’m trying to find the nearest subway.”
“You’re close, I just came from there. It’s just around the corner there and up a block. Can’t miss it.” He turns to point the way over the heads of the crowd around us. It’s a nice gesture, but one I really don’t need. I’ve lived here long enough to find my way to the subway with my eyes closed. It ends up extra helpful though, as I use the opportunity to lift his wallet from his back pocket. Another trick I learned from my thief friends.
“Thank you, sir. I am much obliged. This place had me all turned around.”
“No worries.” We exchange smiles and nods and head our separate ways. Around the corner, I peek into the wallet and pull out what must be at least $20 in small bills. Not a huge score, but a safe one. I leave the larger bills in the wallet and drop it down the leg of my pants. It tumbles to the sidewalk beside a trashcan as I pass by, for the next good Samaritan to return it, if the man is so lucky.
I have what I need. More really. Maybe I’ll go get two sets of socks.
“Thank you very much, Homer,” I say under my breath. “Thanks for giving.”
No Small Thanks
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what? All I said was thank you.”
“Don’t say those words.”
I stare at my sister in confusion. What she is saying goes against everything I have been taught. Be kind. Be respectful. Show thanks when someone does something for you. And what could be more worthy of a ‘thank you’ than giving money to someone in need?
“They don’t deserve your thanks. Save it for someone who has done something significant for you.”
I look down at the coins in my cup. To me, each one of them feels significant. Together, they mean the possibility of food, drink, and maybe if I’m lucky, a new pair of socks. I unconsciously wiggle my big toe in its stringy hole as this thought comes to me. It has been weeks since my left sock caught on my toenail and started to slowly shred apart. At least it’s still only October. Winters here are rough.
I look back at Caryn, and she must be able to read the confusion on my face. She growls a little, then turns to face me straight on. Her eyes are cold and are, if not mean, at least callous.
“That man just walked by with a seven-dollar tiny cup of coffee, and dropped what couldn’t be more than twenty cents in your cup. He just spent what could pay for two days’ worth of food on some burnt sugar water and gave you too little coin to even by some mints. He doesn’t deserve your thanks. He doesn’t even deserve your recognition. He’s just trying to make himself feel better about having enough money to throw it away. He doesn’t care if he is actually helping you. It’s a purely self-centered act.”
She faces to the side and spits on the ground, then stands up and turns her back on me, leaving me staring at the ragged jacket wrapped around her waist. When Caryn stands up, she is nearly six feet tall, and towers over me. We aren’t actually related, but she is the closest thing I have to family in the world. We met almost a year ago, right here in the city, when she saved me from a police crackdown (and my own stupidity). She took me under her wing like I was her own flesh-and-blood brother, Lord knows why. I owe her everything (or so she would say). But I can’t understand the pure hatred she holds for the Homers.
Those of us who are homeless have lots of slang terms for those who are not like us: Frogs (they have ‘pads’), Diggers (they have ‘digs’), Babies (they have a ‘crib’). You get the idea. Caryn always calls them ‘Homers’ and I guess she transferred that one to me. It’s really just a weak attempt to put down people who are better off than us, a sort of inverse snobbery. If we were honest with each other, most of us would love to be Homers.
Instead, we spend most of our time out here in front of cafes and coffee shops, on benches and doorways, hoping to catch enough spare change to survive, and hiding from the cops and the gangs and the thieves. The first two both are trying to remove is in very different ways. The latter, well, actually, I’ve made friends with a lot of the thieves, so they don’t bother me too much. But they have a history with Caryn, so when they find us together it can get awkward. It isn’t as if we have much for them to take, but what we do have is oh so precious to us. And they know it. I learned fast how to store my goods and to carry just enough to make them think they had stripped me clean.
“5-0 on your six.” By the time I react and start to look up to respond, Caryn has already taken several long strides across the street. Too late for me to run, I quickly snap a lid with a straw through it onto my collection cup and pull a local map out of my pocket. As I squint at the multitude of street names, I resemble a dozen other tourists wandering nearby. Just another lost out-of-towner sipping on a pricy drink. The cops pass by without even looking my way.
Not far enough away, Caryn isn’t so lucky. As she approaches the far side of the street, a taxi swerves around a slow pickup truck and nearly runs her over. The blast of a horn, the squealing of brakes, and the ensuing screams of obscenities attract the cops’ attention. A few minutes later, Caryn is in the back of a squad car on her way to what I hope will be a short but likely painful adventure through the penal system. She is well known and wanted, and not just by the cops.
I am frozen in place, unsure what to do, my hand tapping nervously on my map. It isn’t as though this hasn’t happened before. I spent most of April completely alone as she worked her way through a drunk and disorderly. But my initial lack of direction has me rooted in place.
“You look lost, son. Can I help you?” A local businessman, but thankfully not one I recognize. Of course, none of them ever recognize me. I fiddle with my map a little more and chew on my straw. On my own now, time to make a choice.
“Uh, the subway. I’m trying to find the nearest subway.”
“You’re close, I just came from there. It’s just around the corner there and up a block. Can’t miss it.” He turns to point the way over the heads of the crowd around us. It’s a nice gesture, but one I really don’t need. I’ve lived here long enough to find my way to the subway with my eyes closed. It ends up extra helpful though, as I use the opportunity to lift his wallet from his back pocket. Another trick I learned from my thief friends.
“Thank you, sir. I am much obliged. This place had me all turned around.”
“No worries.” We exchange smiles and nods and head our separate ways. Around the corner, I peek into the wallet and pull out what must be at least $20 in small bills. Not a huge score, but a safe one. I leave the larger bills in the wallet and drop it down the leg of my pants. It tumbles to the sidewalk beside a trashcan as I pass by, for the next good Samaritan to return it, if the man is so lucky.
I have what I need. More really. Maybe I’ll go get two sets of socks.
“Thank you very much, Homer,” I say under my breath. “Thanks for giving.”
