Melville Cooke
SO THERE I was, at the intersection of Grant's Pen and Shortwood roads, heading towards the gully, wondering how come I had been at a red light for close to 10 seconds and nobody had begged me 'suppen'.
It must have been a telepathic thought, because instantly a face was at the passenger side window (beside our older daughter). "Gimme 10 dolla nuh," it demanded, wild-eyed. "No I," I said. "Five dollar!" the face pressed. "No I," I replied. "Four, tree, two, wan!" came in spitfire (literally) order. And my no's went back in perfect timing. Then he looked puzzled, opened his eyes even wider and demanded, "Why?!" The light changed.
The plague of begging is one that all Jamaicans who work go through. And I suspect that, like many persons, I have decided I will give no more.
It was not a decision I arrived at lightly. My bleeding heart must have shown through my shirt, because at one time I seemed to attract beggars like deejay Zebra attracts rape charges. And how I listened to the sob stories and how I gave.
There was a notable exception, though. In about 1999 I was walking up East Street towards The Gleaner, when a very tall, very screwface man started banging the proverbial 'half a lass' against the metal framework of an abandoned bus stop. He banged, he stared at me, I stared back and walked closer to him, edging over so that when I passed him my right shoulder was almost brushing his chest.
"Gimme $20!" he demanded. "Whe yu a do, beg me or rob me?" I asked politely. He paused, then said, "A jus' a ting me a look". "Me naa nutten," I said.
STRAW THAT BROKE THE BEGGING BACK
The straw that broke the begging back, though, came earlier this year. There was the kind of knock at the gate which normally means Mormons, Jehovah's Witnesses or beggars, all equally unwelcome. The gentleman said he was not asking for himself, but he could not stand to hear the children crying. My heart melted away like the West Indies batting line-up, but I had no money. I said I would come by with some food. The eyes of the caring father were as soft as Puss In Boots facing the royal guard in Shrek 2 as he gave me an address near the Meadowbrook Post Office ("Yeah man, right beside the nursery") and I quivered at the thought of little Tanisha and Tony at home, using their saliva to fool their stomachs that something 'soon come'.
The street number did not exist.
From then, my heart has been as hard towards beggars as Desmond McKenzie's is towards people parked illegally in New Kingston. A woman walking with a little child stopped me close to home and said, "Dem kill him faada ...." I did not hear the rest, because I was gone. A man said, "Waapen elder" in the Mall Plaza and proceeded to tell me about his children. Moving right along. Didn't help you breed, can't help you feed.
I have been able to derive some satisfaction from my replies. One good one came outside Weekenz on Constant Spring Road on a Tuesday night, when a big, tough-back man asked me if I had any small change. "No, I have small children," I replied snappily.
I got to use my favourite story one night when a man chomping on a bun and cheese, who rested his Red Stripe on the gatepost, looked me dead in the eye and trotted out the standard lie of coming down to work and the man with the van drove off blah, blah, blah. But I was ready. I arranged my face into a picture of dejection and said, "Bway faada, a true yu woulden know. A hospital me a come fram, me Granny sick an' de dackta sey a million mash fi de operation. Me no know how it a go go. Whey u can..."
I did not get to finish the sentence, as he whipped up his beer and was gone. Me? I did not know even one of my grandparents.
Melville Cooke is a freelance writer.
