I’ll Only Pay You if You Tell Me a Story

A very short kid in a bright orange and yellow hoodie had found a compatriot in a girl of even smaller stature than himself and was meandering with her down Hennepin Avenue seeming quite dejected. One expects kids their age who are downtown late on the weekend to have a look on their faces exhibiting negativity toward the world, yet these two seemed different. Not just angsty and disaffected, but also plain old sad. Almost forlorn, even.

As we passed each other, the fellow and I made eye contact. He raised his eyebrows to subtly signify the beginning of a conversation. When I stopped, so did they.

“You have a spare five dollars?” he asked me.

Despite how harmless and pitiable this couple was, their request took me aback. Had they asked for a quarter or a cigarette or directions, I would have tried to oblige. But five dollars?

No one has ever asked me for that much money without a story.

People like their money. Beyond a few coins, the beggar must give the beggee a good reason to donate. You have to put an image in their mind that will make them happier about themselves after they have lightened their pockets, making yours heavier.

Even folks only asking for a quarter tell a story with their attire, their tone of voice, and that look in their eyes. Not once has a confident-looking lady in a business suit and sneakers carrying a posh-yet-practical handbag and her high heels asked me for change downtown. The dissonance there would turn her request into gibberish. She would have to tell one heck of a tale to get people to open their pockets for her.

(Of course people in suits open up other people’s pockets with their stories all the time. It’s called fundraising. But that’s not what we’re talking about here.)

I’m sure this couple had a tale to tell. But, though I try to be creatively observant, I hadn’t had time during their approach to concoct a backstory in my mind that would warrant my paying them for it.

They should have taken a cue from this dude I met once, also in downtown Minneapolis, who, in the late nineties, needed $9 and somehow got five of those dollars from me. He said he needed cab fare back to Bloomington. Or maybe he had to buy a tire for his car—I don’t remember.

That was Step 1: Begin by asserting your need—Nobody gives to folks who don’t need anything. Then he moved on to step 2: Ingratiate yourself into a nearby wallet.

“I’m a deacon at my church, and I’m the manager at the Olive Garden down on 494.”

Oh. You’re those two things? Let me give you some money about it.

That’s how it works.

It’s a little embarrassing to look back on, but it was kind of a fair trade. He told me an artful tale of woe, yet with an undercurrent of potential hope, and I paid him for it. It was like buying a novel or a movie ticket, if you think about it.

But back to the sad teenager who had just asked me out of the blue if I had a spare five dollars:

I responded that no I didn’t, sorry. He said good night with an “Alright,” and we parted toward our opposite directions. Then, from the safety of a few meters’ separation, as if she’d forgotten to wish me farewell, the girlfriend announced, “You know damn well you do.”

It was a hopeless, angry, impotent volley as she retreated—loud enough to be heard, yet quiet and distant enough to warrant no response from her enemy, me.

And so I didn’t respond…except in my head:

No, Miss, I don’t have a spare five dollars. There is some cash in my wallet, yes, and, granted, it’s not all specifically allocated at this point, but I do intend to use it, thus none of my money could accurately be described as spare.

Besides, I doubt you have change for a 20 and you didn’t tell me a story.