Will Work for Fools
During
high school, in the depths of the 1980’s, my friend Gnat got a job
working at the Guitar Exchange. It was a local retail establishment, a
music shop about the size of a storage shed, which served as a hangout for
teenage stoners with Van Halenian aspirations. Gnat being just such a
guitar-shredding, heavy metal acolyte, this seemed the perfect environment
for him to pretend to be gainfully employed.
The Guitar Exchange was owned by a guy we’ll
call Ed Gravy, because I’m not very good at pseudonyms. Ed
may have had a passion for guitars, but it was clear from the air of
surrealist insanity that permeated his store that his real ambition
had been to be the fourth Stooge. There
was a kind of madcap hostility Ed liked to engage in that hardly seemed
conducive to good salesmanship (they even recorded a radio ad celebrating
“Customer Abuse Week” at the Guitar Exchange). For example, when Ed
was feeling particularly antagonistic toward his clientele, he would set
up a stereo speaker in the men’s room, which broadcast straining,
brapping, and plopping sounds he had recorded for the express purpose of
scaring off potential sales. It was the sort of place anyone with any
dignity would avoid. I still have a copy of that bathroom tape.
Ed didn’t hire Gnat for his retail skills, for
it was clear to anyone who laid eyes on Gnat that he was barely fit for
social interaction of any kind. Ed hired him for Gnat’s cheerful
willingness to degrade himself on command. He was made to learn and recite
oaths of servitude, full of difficult alliteration, like Lewis Carroll
responding to a drill instructor at Fort Bragg. There were special dances
Gnat was expected to perform. “Pig dances.” If Ed was displeased with
Gnat’s performance, he was made to wear the “dummy bucket,” a
plastic mop pail with a cartoon face and the word “dummy” scrawled
across it. Not only did Gnat appear to genuinely enjoy this abuse, the
dummy bucket seemed to be the highlight of his day.
So, it was no surprise to drive past the store in
the afternoon and see Gnat engaged in one of Ed’s favorite methods of
humiliation. Gnat would be handcuffed to the Guitar Exchange signpost, out
by the highway, dressed in a prairie dress with frilly lace around the
hem, the dummy bucket on his head. My friends and I would hardly notice
the insanity of this. We’d simply remark, “Gnat must have screwed up
the pig dance today.”
I think about Gnat’s roadside disgrace often
nowadays, because similar visions along the highway are becoming far more
common. The first time I saw one of these sad individuals hired to
advertise a business by parading signage down the sidewalk, I had one of
my typically naïve responses. “Oh, look!” I said. “That jaunty
fellow in the Uncle Sam costume has decided to make his job more joyful by
dancing a little jig! Such fine spirit he has!” Of course, after a
moment’s consideration, I realized the horrible truth. This was a pig
dance, in a dummy bucket, and he had been commanded to perform it.
You’ve seen these pitiable creatures, of
course, gyrating in their cow costumes or dressed like giant pizza slices,
twirling signs for the big closeout sale at Mattress Barn. They look like
sports mascots after the bank foreclosed on their dugout. As degrading as
this “occupation” appears to be, and as much as my barely-contained
contempt for our corporate overlords tells me otherwise, I don’t believe
the job of Sidewalk Stooge was designed simply to be humiliating to the
employee. No, some learned number-cruncher looked at the sales figures for
March, saw a slight increase in taco sales, and concluded, “It must be
the chick on the highway dressed like a giant toucan.”
Not
long ago, I watched one of these costumed hustlers sweating in the sun,
giving passing motorists the pitch for discount sportswear, when what did
I see standing right next to the guy? A panhandler with a cardboard sign.
This guy’s outfit was considerably less festive, and he didn’t quite
have the same hustle (though probably sweating less than the guy wearing
the zebra head). His sign didn’t have the same pizzazz, either –
something about being desperately poor and hungry – and frankly, I
thought the typeface he chose for his logo was a little too rustic. The
contrast in the salesmanship of these two was pretty remarkable. The
panhandler’s was more of a soft-sell, you might say.
I know some people have principled reasons for
avoiding panhandlers. When comfortable, middle class citizens try to enjoy
a night on the town, drowning their workweek cares in a few Kahlua and
Creams, they don’t want to stagger outside their favorite nightclub at 2
am, only to accosted by a homeless person asking for change. “Don’t
give them any money,” they say, while dropping their pants to pee behind
the dumpster. “They’ll only spend it on booze!”
I have my own rules about giving money to
panhandlers. For example, the guy asking me for a dollar in the parking
lot while wearing $200 Reebok’s probably isn’t getting my money. If I
covet any part of your wardrobe, chances are I need the dollar worse than
you. I suppose I could simply offer to buy the shoes off the guy if he’s
that hard up, but that would make me feel too much like a black market war
profiteer. I’m not ready at this stage of my life to negotiate an
impromptu business deal outside Office Max.
But
generally speaking, if someone’s level of desperation has forced them to
confront strangers and ask for money, I’m willing to give them something
just for having the guts to do what I could never do myself. I mean, I
can’t even bring myself to ask someone for jumper cables. And if their
story of need is particularly good , packed with dramatic elements like
military heroism, broken-down cars, or a need for the cat’s ear
medicine, I give extra. I came across one guy outside the drug store once
who was showing off a bleeding knife wound in his gut that needed its
medical attention financed. I gave him some money AND I bought him some
gauze.
But
some will coldly suggest that these hobos simply need to get a job, or at
the very least, a banjo and a tip jar. To these armchair civil engineers I
recommend that they look across the street to the woman dancing in the
Statue of Liberty outfit. This, I say, is perhaps the job you’re
suggesting the panhandler should apply for, a retail repurposing of the
street-corner begging you were just complaining about. You’re suggesting
these people should give up their lifestyle of freelance degradation and
literally become a dancing monkey for The Man. Corporate America seems to
agree that the best solution for street hustling is simply to co-opt it.
But keep in mind that these were the same suits that watched as
desperately poor Russians tried to sell their old pots and pans on the
street after the Berlin Wall came down and said it was proof that the free
market was thriving. They have their own way of looking at things. Must be
those Google Glasses.
You
would think these Junior Galts would be celebrating the entrepreneurial
spirit of the “will work for food” self-starters. But no, when it gets
right down to it, they’re rather fond of the idea of indentured
servants, and they have great fun dressing them up like Hello Kitty and
flaunting them to rush hour traffic. This is how they announce they’ve
won the battle for civilization, the victory of the 99-cent Junior
Baconator over the people who can’t afford the 99-cent Junior Baconator.
If you can’t beat ‘em, advertise ‘em.
Could the traditional panhandler learn a thing or
two from the Wall Street visionaries? Would the sunburned war vet turn a
better profit at the freeway off-ramp if he advertised “30% off – this
weekend only” on his cardboard? Would he generate more interest dressed
as Little Bo Peep? And why not a little dance, grandpa? Everyone likes
good entertainment!
I fear it’s far more likely that the opposite
will come to pass. Face it, many of the prevailing big box stores are
faltering in our modern economy. Maybe chains like Best Buy can survive
with a more direct appeal. They’ll hire an army of unwashed, homeless
folks to beg for spare coins outside their own shopping centers, their
homemade signage pleading the company’s case: “Dip in profits for the
third quarter. Country club fees past due. Please help!”
If
they can make that work, they’ve utilized the true independent spirit
that makes this country great. To them I tip my dummy bucket.
- A.H.
