You’re walking north on Dearborn through Printer’s Row, portfolio in hand, and you’re feeling pretty good about yourself and about the early-morning showing you’ve just wrapped up. Work’s picking up, the lean years are just about behind you now. You feel confident. You take long strides.
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
Out of the corner of your eye you see a fellow cutting a diagonal across the street; he’s walking right toward you. You size him up. He’s black, not dressed well, but not too poorly. He’s small, probably not a threat. He approaches and timidly requests a moment of your time. A panhandler, then. You’re just coming out of many years of cold-shouldering these people, and now you occasionally come up with a quarter or two if they can come up with a good enough line. You’re picky. These people took advantage of you when you were young, traveling alone. Your good nature wore thin. After that you were poor, so you were tight with your dough. Now, though, you’ve usually got something in your pocket, so you’ve started listening again, trying to discern the genuinely needy from those who just think you’re an easy mark.
“I parked my car over by that big fountain at about three this morning when I got to town. I went for a walk to stretch and check out the city and the police towed my car. I’ve been up all night. I called my friends and it turns out they live in Lockport, way out west.” It’s a good story, you can relate. Maybe you’ll give him some change.
