The young man begging in front of the LRT station is wearing a brand new pair of Timberlands; clean, fashionable jeans; and a very nice woolen greatcoat.
I’m wondering how much he’ll pull in this afternoon. True, it’s the end of the day and it’s the 15th. A number of people are going to have gotten paid today. Still, what are the odds that anyone will be moved to charity by the sight of this young, well-built young man in his dark gray woolens and immaculate boots boldly confronting people for money?
Not good. Not good odds.
Frankly, it’s all in the approach here. I mean, he’s doing it, but he’s doing it without love.
Honestly, he’s put no effort into this. Look, I get dressed for work every day. I brush my hair, I wear sensible shoes for the walk to the bus. I’ve agreed to sell my time and my brain by the hour, and I look like it, so if this guy is going to look at me right in the eyes while holding a hand-lettered cardboard sign, he could at least provide something of value.
I'll tell you what: Amuse me. Tell me a joke. Stand on your hands. Dress the part, if you're going to try to pull me into this charade: faux-hobo pants, porkpie hat, maybe a bundled bandana on a stick.
My what? My “spare change”? There’s a “spare” kind of change?
I don’t think I’ve ever had “spare” change. I would like to try it, though.
Come on, man. You want my money, earn it.
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