Panhandle For My Blog

          

            A panhandler is defined as somebody that begs in a public space. This may come as a surprise, but people aren’t too fond of panhandlers. What people may not know is that there is a long-standing connection between religion and begging. In a much nicer sounding synonym, alms are given to others as a religious virtue. Nuns and monks have been living off of alms for centuries. In fact, this is how Siddhartha Gautama Buddha, the founder of Buddhism lived.

            For seven years I was the Store Manager of a Blockbuster Video that sat at a busy intersection that was frequented by panhandlers. I had worked there long enough to be able to identify the regulars. During the summer I would let Mike and John come in and get a drink from our water fountain. They were always respectful, thankful and usually drunk. One day I walked outside to give them some expired chips that we were supposed to throw away. I found out that Mike was a true hobo. He travelled around the country by hopping on trains and hitchhiking. But John, on the other hand, owned a house larger than mine.  As it turns out, John was fired from his previous job. Directly in front of where he started to panhandle. He told me that because he didn’t have any taxes taken from him, he made more money on the corner.

            “AND…” he said as he turned to stare down the building of his old job, “I can drink while doing this.” Needless to say, I no longer gave him handouts.

Spend The Night In A Police Car

            Officer C G has been a police officer for six years, but we’ve been friends for more than a decade. In college, we worked together at the parking department. In fact, my wife trained him. In my five years working the student job, I jumped back and forth between being a cashier and a student supervisor. At the end of my tenure, C became one of four managers in the department. While he was technically my boss, I never saw him in that manner. This is not a slight towards him, but more his position. He was doing the full-time duties of what I did. I got paid to sit in an office with him and watch movies or play poker on a homemade table fashioned from an overturned garbage can with a board on top of it. This was a stop-gap job for C. The occupation that he wanted was that of his father, a police officer.

            At eleven p.m. on a Tuesday night, C and I met in the parking ramp that housed the University of Iowa Office of Public Safety. This encompasses three branches: Security, Police, and Fire. As I approached him, C was standing at the cab of his truck wearing mesh shorts, a t-shirt and flip flops. Inside the station, I waited in the lobby, a small area with several plastic-backed chairs, a counter filled with pamphlets about last year’s crime statistics, rape victim advocacy and paperwork for pressing charges. While I was sitting there, C got a privacy form for me to fill out. The entrance wall was glass, giving me a sense of self-awareness. People could watch me as they stood outside this wall. I assumed that someone was watching me from behind one of the glass partition windows labeled “Records” and “Police.” C came out of the office and handed me a sheet of paper, telling me to fill it out while he got ready. On one side was a waiver, absolving them of any liability. On the other, there was a confidentiality agreement. That being said, all names have been fabricated to protect their identities.