These days at the complicated intersection of Washington and Broadway, the downtrodden God-Bless-You gang works in shifts along the stoplight medians. There’s a steady stream of traffic, and the location offers proximity to plenty of bars, fast food, and, perhaps most conveniently, the Jug liquor store across the street. There’s a guy with a cardboard sign on every island and corner at the intersection, some days six guys holding down every possible point of access to motorists. There’s also a gaggle of characters waiting on the sidelines, so to speak, sitting along the concrete freeway barrier and on the bus stop benches. It’s like pick-up basketball.
You tend to see the same panhandlers every day. They appear to use each other’s signs. “Stranded,” one says, and nothing else. There’s the standard, “Homeless. Please Help. God Bless.” And “Homeless Veteran. God Bless America.” I also saw this virtuous variant recently: “I’m Trying to Get Back on My Feet.”
“Three Children in Texas” seemed to strike an odd note, and I was uncertain whether the appropriate reaction was sympathy or scorn. I do feel sympathy, or rather compassion, for all of them, especially now that there seem to be more of them every day. My guiding principle is that if I encounter one of them at a red light, I give him some spare change or a buck, and each one has been unfailingly polite.
These characters have become a fixture at street corners all over the city in recent years, of course, and some local authorities aren’t terribly happy about the situation. In April, Minneapolis Police Chief William McManus, in an effort to curb and manage aggressive begging, floated the idea of licensing panhandlers. The idea, which has already been enacted in such cities as Cincinnati and Dayton in Ohio, would require panhandlers to apply for a license at the government center and wear a photo ID at all times when working the sidewalks and intersections of the city.
The regulars at Washington and Broadway didn’t seem terribly concerned when informed about McManus’ proposal. Most of them are veterans of the streets and downtown homeless shelters, and they’re inured to all manner of hassles and inconveniences. Scrutinizing the nuts and bolts of city code isn’t much of a priority to them. Finding a place to crash and rustling up enough cash to maintain their nomadic existence is challenging enough.
I walked down there one sweltering afternoon. As usual, a handful of sign-wielding men was spread out at various corners of the intersection. A stocky, middle-aged guy was holding down the prime piece of real estate on the stoplight median at northbound Washington. He was wearing a heavy U.S. Army camouflage jacket with the sleeves cut off and a matching hat, and it was clear from his attitude and the apparent deference with which he was treated by the other regulars that he occupied a position of seniority. His name, “John,” was tattooed prominently on one of his forearms.
“What the hell am I going to do with a damn license?” John asked. “They’re just looking for another way to waste taxpayers’ money. I already got a green book downtown that’s thicker than the Bible. I’ve been out here since ’96, and I don’t care if it’s raining or its twenty below, I’m out here every day monkeying around. This is how I live. I’m not gonna lie to you; I get drunk and eat, eat and get drunk, and then I look for someplace to pass out for the night. Sometimes it’s comfortable, sometimes it’s miserable, but I don’t have any use anymore for the bullshit shelters.”
There is, apparently, a sort of unspoken code among the panhandlers at Broadway and Washington. A guy is given an opportunity to hold down a spot and make some cash, but everybody seems to have a clear concept of when enough is enough; when somebody’s obviously wearing out his welcome, the others who are waiting around won’t hesitate to let him know. I heard one guy haranguing a panhandler who was slumped against a light pole with an attitude of supreme indifference. “Come on, man,” the guy said with obvious exasperation. “You’re not even working it.”
There’s also a weird sort of camaraderie among the panhandlers. Many of them have known each for years. “I can’t stand most of these assholes,” John told me. “But we eat and drink and get drunk together, and a lot of us will pool our money when we get low.” On the day I stopped by to talk, he had a modest goal. “Maybe some of these people come out here thinking they’re gonna get rich,” he said. “Plenty of them don’t have any damn sense. If I get $6.50, that’s enough to get me through the day. Some days I do a lot better than others. People aren’t all bad, I can tell you that. There are lots of good ones out there.”
One day in July, in the rain, I saw a motorist hand one familiar member of the God-Bless-You gang a pizza box through a car window, and a few days later, as I waited at the stoplight, there was a guy who was holding an entirely blank piece of cardboard. “What’s your sign say?” I asked. “You know what it says,” he said, without the slightest hint of hostility. He was, of course, absolutely right.—Brad Zellar
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