Orphans of the Storm

Late afternoon: City whitened under snow, more than anyone expected. Death-march north up Biltmore, but even worse in the southbound lane, where people are trying to get out of town. Thought of the panhandler who often breaks in on Cantaria rehearsals. He’s skinny, disheveled (the last time quite smelly), and always has the same story, that the bike given to him by people at Trinity Church was stolen, and everything would be all right if he could just get $15, because “she” promises to rent him a room for the night for $15. He replaces the guy who just ran out of gas and who could get home if somebody would lend him gas money. I gave him a twenty several weeks ago, responding to the same story, which did not seem at the time entirely implausible. Though he is clearly a liar, I’ve no doubt that the things he mentions actually happened to him once upon a time, which his desperation makes into an ever-recycling life narrative. He has become He Whose Bike Was Stolen, and Who Could Sleep Safe for Fifteen Bucks. He came to me while my class discussed Gollum, and those classes of entities which we are not sure whether to classify as “evil” or “unfortunate.” The moral world is confused by the fact that one can be quite destructive without actually being evil. Charity is confused by the prevalence of beggars who are not actually needy, but have found the craft (whining prevarication) they’re good at and, like the rest of us, employ it. Is some particular beggar really needy, or does the repetition of a story clearly not likely to happen twice erase his worthiness by making him a liar, a whiner, an interrupter of other people’s days? He preys on churches, knowing that church people will at least feel an exquisite conflict between Christ and practicality.