I think I did a good thing

I work in a building near the Navy Yard. If you don't know where that is, I work in a building near the new Nationals stadium. It's a weird mix of new buildings, construction, open lots, jagged partial toothy rows of remaining rowhouses, one CVS, and very few places to eat lunch. It's an area "in transition," divided from Capitol Hill proper by 295 south and just a few barren blocks where the old public housing was razed a couple of years ago. Baseball fans from the 'burbs park their cars across the street from a mixed block of rowhouses: some are renovated and for sale; others have bare-dirt, junk-strewn yards. You wonder what's going to happen to these houses and the people who live in them.

Yesterday evening, I was hiking from my office back towards the Hill when a voice behind me said, "Excuse me, ma'am, do you have the time?" I looked back and saw a black man and a young woman walking behind me. They looked somehow threadbare, the man a little too thin, their clothes a little unkempt. I answered that it had been about 6:20 when I left my office a few minutes ago, and started to walk briskly again.

"I'm sorry to bother you again, but do you know how far it is to Second and D Street NW? How long will it take us to walk there?" I stopped. We were at the corner of 3rd and K SE. It's a hike from there to Second and D NW. I told the guy as much, and tried to give him directions. I noticed that the young woman was younger than I had thought, probably a teenager, and her breath wheezed terribly. She was wearing a red hooded sweat suit and carrying a brightly-colored backpack. She didn't look like she could walk all that way. The man said to her, "OK, you just got to hold onto my arm for awhile longer." And she took him arm, her stare remaining fixed and downcast, her breath rasping.

"We're just trying to get to the shelter there. Her school bus dropped her off over here, cause I work by the Navy Yard, and she can't go to her mama's and we don't have no place to go. She's handicapped, and she got a bus pass, but I don't know what bus to take, and we found out her pass only work for the bus, not the train. You know how much the bus fare is? I got 70 cents." He showed me the young woman's laminated bus pass, hung on a lanyard around his neck. It did have her photo on it, and indicated she was disabled.

I started to give them directions on how to get to the D6 bus, which would take them right to the shelter. I fumbled in my purse, and recalled that I truly had no money left in my wallet - only pennies. Damn, if this was a story or a setup, they were awfully good actors. The girl's breathing was kind of alarming. I was going to give this guy bus fare if I could. Then I remembered I had a bunch of old Metro farecards in my backpack. I'd gotten them at an old job, and never used them. I found the farecards, and handed the guy two of them. "Here. These won't work on the bus, but you can use them on the subway. It'll be a lot easier for you to get there on the subway."

The guy's face lit up, and he smiled. "Thank you, thank you! You get home safe now." They turned and walked off, the girl holding onto his arm. eyes downcast. I watched them for a bit, and as far as I could see, they were walking right towards the Navy Yard Metro station.

Did I do a good thing? The right thing? I don't know. They didn't ask me for money, and I won't ever know what the real story is (unless, of course, I see them again today and get the same line - ha! Am I jaded.). I guess they could try to sell the farecards if they wanted to, but I hope they'll just use them to get wherever they think they need to go.

I just wanted to go to the gym, not start a class war

I got shiny new running shoes over the weekend, in the exact same size and model as my old, beat-up, beat-out, beaten down, stained pair. I pulled the new ones out of the box this morning, and pulled the factory insoles out of them so I could put my trusty special custom orthotic/Spenco insole combo in. The custom orthotics are essential to my running life to make sure I don't get any more stupid shin splints/plantar fasciitis/Achilles tendonitis due to my stupid flat overpronating feet. The Spenco insoles add cushion on top of my rigid leather orthotics to prevent the most hideous arch blisters known to mankind. It took me MONTHS to come up with this combination, and I give due credit to Phil Fenty at Fleet Feet in Adams Morgan for suggesting I put the Spenco insoles on TOP of the orthotics. I was almost in tears over my blistered feet when I walked in to Fleet Feet, and I was ready to give up running. I could have kissed Phil Fenty, but that seemed undignified, since he's the mayor's dad and all.

But because I am a dumb ass, I forgot to put my orthotics/insoles into my new damn shoes before I left the house. So I got all ready to hike through the pouring rain to the gym at lunch and realized....no insoles in my shoes. This. Is. A. Problem. But never fear! CVS is here! Right across the street, on the way to the gym! I'll just buy some cheap insoles that I can use to work out today. Great!

I'm innocently browsing the "Foot Care" section at CVS in peace, and deeply pondering the relative merits of some "Sport Link Extreme" insoles when I am tapped on the shoulder. A 40-ish(?) skinny black guy sticks a laminated card with writing on it in front of me. I read it. To paraphrase: "I am deaf and I have a wife, an ex-wife and a girlfriend and eleventeen children to support and due to The Man and the inequalities of society in general I cannot work to support them and so I must ask kind strangers like you to give me cash to feed and clothe my destitute family so please give me money." I look the guy right in the eye, and I say politely,"I'm very sorry, but no. I don't give money to individuals." He immediately gets very hostile and starts waving his hands in the air and yelling something about "You white women are all alike! [Incomprehensible ranting] white women....all alike!" He continues to wave his hands and stomp around and wave his laminated card angrily at me and yell all the way down the aisles of the CVS and all the way out the door.

I just stood there blinking for a minute or so, because, jeez, man, I'm just shopping for some goddamn insoles here. You don't even know me, or anything about me. Because I'm a white woman shopping in CVS I should be your personal Social Services? Learn to take "no" for an answer, man, because your future panhandling/sales career is not going to get far with that attitude. And no, I don't know anything about you either, other than what's written on that card (which I, in my jaded city realism, am going to take with a grain of salt) and that you are rude and hostile. I only give money to close friends and family as wedding or birthday or holiday presents. Why on earth would I just hand money to you, someone I don't even know? You want to hang around while I explain why I don't give individuals money? Or what charities I do give money to in DC that feed people and clothe them and give them job training? Want the names of any of those organizations? No? You just want to yell at me and scare me and stereotype me? OK, then. Fine. I'll stereotype you as another aggressive panhandler who just wants a handout, and doesn't want to do anything to change his situation, and hey, we've really made impressive social progress here! Great.

I chose my goddamn insoles, realized I would have to cut them to fit the shoes, and decided to go back to my office to cut them and get a sandwich because I was ravenous, and it was pouring rain anyhow. So much for the gym - thank you, please try again later. With less verbal assault this time, please.