When I pulled into the Oxxo to pick up some smokes, he was begging. He seemed disoriented, shuffling between motorists with his rough hands open and cupped. His eyes were as empty as his stomach; it looked like one beer could fill him up, and he was lost somewhere on the way towards it. His weak, imploring stammer was ignored by most people in the 10 yards of concrete between the parking lot and store. Filthy, vacant, unhumbled strictly by the extremity of his need, he was falling into someone's life for a peso, or a cigarette. I decided to lock my car.
Not so much because he looked dangerous, but for an immediate repulsion to his person, his state of abandonment and squalor, the straw from last night's field clinging in his unwashed, matted hair. Also, the fact that he had absolutely nothing to lose in the grandest sense I've yet witnessed.
I'm an ordinary white man, privileged enough to walk in off the highway and purchase cigarettes, water, or a chocolate covered ice cream bar which costs close to two bucks without thinking much about it. I can piss in the restroom because I've bought gas, and I'm entering a tienda on the strength of the commerce I have to give them; inherent, petty rights, that I ignore all the time. I passed close by him and entered the Oxxo without hesitating.
When I was inside, the routine of the experience took over and after circling around products, choosing, I wound up at the cash where I was waited upon like anyone there. Looking to the front of the store, I see that one of the girls is arranging a display in order to keep her eye on the beggar. She isn't smiling or afraid as far as I can tell, just cold. The man has been here before, and she's anticipating another encounter. She is preparing for it. When he finally gets some money begging he will come into the store and be her problem again. Better now, than after it gets dark, but undesireable nonetheless. She arranges absently and stares.
I am making this stop on my way to Guadalajara to pay for a job. There is an envelope with $10,000 pesos in my briefcase, the agreed upon sum for work that feeds nothing, clothes nothing and saves nothing. It's a fair price and I have no qualms about paying it or asking it of my client. I'm not worried about it while I'm in the store watching a girl, watch a beggar, failing.
I watch him too, beyond the reach of his immediate prospects, as he prepares himself, mumbling, scratching his tatters, until the proximity of a stranger prompts an awareness of what he's doing. He has a story that he's never finished telling; I don't think even he knows how it ends beyond a coin, or rejection. It costs him nothing and is all he owns, a soiled and pathetic mantra. He isn't quick enough for most who reach the safety of their cars and are gone, 100 km/hr on their way away from him. He can't keep up; they enter his field of vision blurred and leave as quickly.
I do not often give to beggars. There are many who survive quite easily from it, teaching their children the trade, passing the hopelessness on. For some it's an old profession with regular hours and standard pitches, adepts who maim themselves occasionally for authenticity. I have seen them in India, Egypt, Turkey. I am inured mostly, and rather than sift through the sea for legitimate need, I pass on. It's a habit.
Leaving the store, the air conditioned convenience store, I feel the heat rise off the pavement and fill my cheeks. The shopgirl is still fixated, she doesn't register the coin, which I press quickly into his shaking hand. Then I'm past him and into my car, more shelter than he'll have tonight. From this safety I look back, watch as he uncurls his claw of a hand and stares. For a short time he will not be ignored. I catch the shopgirl's eye and see she understands this too and resents it. To learn and teach this cost me only 10 pesos.
