The Day I Spent as a Homeless Person

Homeless people, for the most part, have very little impact on my life. I do not let them wash my windshield, so my Jeep is transient-free. I do not give them money, as I have not used any form of hard-copy cash since my freshman year in high school. And I do not find Bum Fights amusing, mostly because homeless people are really dirty, and watching really dirty people do things that semi-clean people do in Oz isn’t really that interesting.

I have always wondered, though, what their existence is like. So I tried it. For one day, I was a transient citizen as defined by the Austin City Police Department, lazily meandering up and down the corner of Lamar and Ben White.

My initial goal in this experiment was to discover exactly how much money the average, handsome homeless person can make during a four hour shift. Once I recorded that figure, I would simply multiply it by two and come up with some sort of yearly salary. Once this number was calculated, I would reveal my findings the (not so) curious world. Onward.

9:50
Ugh. My alarm. Maybe I won’t be a homeless person today. I don’t even have a sign. I have a sign idea, but Rome wasn’t built on ideas. Rome was built on lies and exploitation. So I’d guess I’d better do as the Romans do: I’m going to go lie and exploit.

I have never acted, although I know the basic premise of method-acting. As such, I decide to stay in character for the duration of my experiment. Before I begin work on my sign, I skip breakfast and instead drink a glass of wine. Wine is hard to drink in the morning.

The Romans, Steven, the Romans.

I complete my sign while watching Sportscenter: HOMELESSLY DEVOTED TO YOU, it says. Perfect. Witty and succinct.

I rip the sleeves off of my shirt, rub my shorts and face on my engine block, and load into my Jeep. My work begins now.

10:55
I decide to park at Central Market so that I can get a sandwich following my homelessness. As I’m walking to my hand-picked real-estate, I am grateful for the ability to switch my homelessness on and off. Transients everywhere are surely insulted by my hardihood. Awesome.

11:01
I arrive at my corner. The remnants of past inhabitants are the first things I notice: two (2) uneaten packages of snack crackers, a large piece of cardboard than I cleverly assume serves as a bed, and a dime.

Uneaten food? A dime? Something terrible must have happened here.

I get to work. The first part of my experiment, which will last 30 minutes, involves me sitting, without my sign, against a pole. I will measure my audience’s reaction to my confounding existence.

11:11
My first offering. A young girl, probably a student, hangs a five-dollar bill out of her window. I run over to her car and thank her for her donation, although I decline to accept. I am fuzzy on the illegalities of homelessness – I opt to be safe rather than sorry. She rolls up her window, confused. I think she wanted a date. Five dollars, though. My ego is soaring.

11:17
My second and third offerings come during the same red light. Yet another college girl ($1) and a tow-truck operator ($1), who is smoking Marlboro 100’s and listening to what sounds like Vince Gill. I thank them both and explain myself. The girl seems upset.

11:31
It’s fucking hot. Jesus Christ, it’s fucking hot. The Weather Channel said it was going to be 87 out today, but all of this traffic and concrete is padding the air with heat. My melanin is pissed. I haven’t had a donation in a while, either. Perhaps it’s time to get my sign. And water.

11:40
I begin phase two: Stand up and prowl, with sign.

11:41
People love the sign. In the realm of homeless people, I am a regular Richard Pryor. I receive two laughs and three donations ($3.25), all from young girls, at my first red light. It seems that benevolence is intrinsic to sorority girls. And what’s with all of the hippies passing me without so much as a flung nickel? I guess their hearts are too busy bleeding for Darfur to help out a dirty 20-year-old Mexican boy. Whatever. The ladies love me.

11:59
I have so far received 11 dollars in my first 50 minutes on the job, but my growing total is now a secondary concern. A police officer is circling under the bridge, on his way to see me. One second.

12:21
Jesus. I just spoke with Officer Swann for 20 minutes. Turns out he’s got a B.B.A. and a Masters degree in history. He also has two children and really appreciates my experiment. He enjoys talking as well. Officer Swann teaches me that it is illegal to accept money only if I step onto the street – it is perfectly legal if I remain on the curb and lean onto a car.

90 percent of transients suffer from some sort of chemical dependence. I am not one of them.

12:42
I’m exhausted. I’ve already had to explain myself to another police officer. Luckily, Officer Swann gave me his card, which I showed to Officer Johnson, so I am currently free to continue my experiment.

Speaking of, I receive yet another two donations, one from a man in a blue Chevy ($.32) and another young female ($1). This is getting outrageous – I have just broken the 20 dollar mark for a little over an hour’s work.

12:51
It seems that Jesus has taken notice of my hilarity. John Wesley, owner of what seems to be a 1995 Buick LaSabre, offers to lead me to His Grace. I decline, but am currently With Pamphlet. Did you know the divorce rate in America is almost to 75 percent? These Jesus freaks are eye. opening.

12:57
Another one of God’s messengers. This one did not want to lead me to Jesus – just a church. Two in ten minutes time? They must be coming from an early-afternoon Judy Blume protest. Neither of them gave me money, either. I did get another dollar, though. I am at $21.32.

1:11
Another police officer. This one did not get out of his car, but simply asked out the window, “Are you actually homeless?” I shook my head and told him I was a student at Texas, and he smiled. Apparently our reputation precedes us.

1:21
A carload of young males asks me how I became homeless, and I reply “I just woke up this morning and decided to become homeless.” They look at me and laugh. I can only assume they think I’m a crazy person, and that anything I say is funny. Well enough – they give me 2 dollars between the four of them. 27 and change. I’ve been here for two hours.

1:32
I’m taking a break from the walking to write my observations. Firstly, people in their cars do not enjoy making eye contact with transients, but they do enjoy reading their signs. This invariably leads to an odd sort of Sophie’s Choice – they will look, but the possibility of eye contact torments the three seconds of sign-reading ecstasy.

I have also realized that rich people and working-class people approach their wealth differently. Working class people seem to believe that they are lucky, as if they’ve accidentally stumbled across a life where money isn’t necessarily abundant, but at least accessible. As such, they feel as though they owe it to the lesser people (me) who weren’t so lucky.

Rich people, on the other hand, act as though Jesus himself gave them their money and said, “If you give this away, I will send the Muslims to kill your pets and ruin your garden.” And so they don’t give their money away. I am currently approaching 30 dollars worth of potential donations, but not a cent has been donated by a Lexus, a Range Rover, or even an Infinity. Hmmm.

1:47
I have resolved to continue my experiment for another 45 minutes. My hunger is beginning to show through my theatrics – I’m not holding my sign and stumbling around with the same conviction I previously showed. No matter, though, because an older man just offered me a 5 dollar bill. That puts me at a cool $34.83 in possible donations. The life of the homeless is degrading, sure, but it could surely pay the bills.

2:30
Nothing more to report since my last entry. I made a lot more money, eventually hitting $44 with a bullet. Again, I didn’t accept any of this money, but rather recorded the offers. I also spoke with a person who attended Texas who recommended I try North Austin next week. “The people there are wealthier,” he says. He is not an Enlightened One.

I walk back to my Jeep with my sign, passing beneath a tree and thinking again about the complexities of my experiment. I think of a book I once read called Nickel and Dimed, where a wealthy woman lives the life of a short-order waitress for one year. Just as she had no right, I suppose I have no right to analyze my experience as genuine.

I could have made more money as beggar, though, than I could have as a server. Seems reversed, sure, but I take what I can from the whole thing. Perhaps the collective generosity of the South Austin area is proving of a greater theme: there is some heart left in the American motorist.

Comments

[Justin Radcock]

Ugh. I saw you. You were fucking gross. And dirty.

Look. You guys just don't fucking get it. Homeless people are diseased and need to be exterminated. All hardcore. Like in Bosnia...except with no survivors.

[Brooke Dandridge]

I guess my biggest question is, did you really rub yourself on the engine block of your car??